


Handwritten Valentine -- ON HIATUS FOR REWRITE

by IrisCalasse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Friends, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Enemies, No Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCalasse/pseuds/IrisCalasse
Summary: Hermione Granger would forever remember her thirteenth year as the year she realized she had a thing for blonde gits with heart-stopping smiles. It was also the year that she realized that being smart in school had absolutely nothing to do with matters of love.She forgave herself for Lockhart after awhile. But there was another blonde git that year, though Hermione had never admitted it to anyone, and to her shame she’d even participated in the pink furor of Lockhart’s Valentine celebrations. It was just her luck that Ginny’s ridiculous singing valentine had taken center stage, because she’d actually sent one of her own. The best that could’ve been said about it was that she hadn’t mentioned fresh pickled toads. Instead, it had said:Dear Draco,I like you. Please ask me on a date.I’d rather enjoy it if you would.Love, Anonymous------------------------A/N: So very sorry but I feel discontented with this story and wish to overhaul it. Thank you for your patience with my first attempt at a multichapter. I will come back in a few months with proper chaps ready for posting.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 30
Kudos: 126





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Killer_Queen201](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Queen201/gifts), [PeachPenguin91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachPenguin91/gifts), [Klawdee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klawdee/gifts), [Witchy74woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy74woman/gifts).



**PROLOGUE**

Hermione Granger would forever remember her thirteenth year as the year she realized she had a thing for blonde gits with heart-stopping smiles. It was also the year that she realized that being smart in school had absolutely nothing to do with matters of love.

She forgave herself for Lockhart after awhile. He was, after all, a teacher, an author, and the winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile of the Year award, and he had sent much wiser and more mature hearts than hers aflutter. Sure, Harry and Ron might rib her about him (and they’d be right), but, in her defense, if Molly Weasley could have a crush on him, surely she wasn’t being too silly to have been blinded for even just a small amount of time by his strong jawline and patrician nose?

But there was another blonde git that year, though Hermione had never admitted it to anyone, and to her shame she’d even participated in the pink furor of Lockhart’s Valentine celebrations. It was just her luck that Ginny’s ridiculous singing valentine had taken center stage, because she’d actually sent one of her own. The best that could’ve been said about it was that she hadn’t mentioned fresh pickled toads. Instead, it had said:

Dear Draco,  
I like you. Please ask me on a date.  
I’d rather enjoy it if you would.  
Love, Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this came from a tumblr plunny, basically, and I had originally planned it to be a one-shot, but as I wrote it more details started appearing, and it became the beginning of my first Dramione multi-chap. I have the full plot but am posting this as I write the chapters. I don't know how many chapters there will be, yet, but I intend this to end roughly in their 6th year. It's fairly close to canon in the beginning (obviously except the Dramione part) but it will start deviating considerably after 4th year, as I don't intend this to be a Voldy-centric fic; I haven't even decided if I'll include Voldy at all.
> 
> Sorry for the placeholder chapter, but the real Chapter 1 is up next! :-D
> 
> My beta for this chapter is is Witchy74woman. Aesthetic by Klawdee :-D


	2. First Impressions Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco's first meeting, in Diagon Alley, until the Sorting.

It was his hair that she’d noticed first.

Hermione had been eleven; she had only known that she was a witch for around ten months. She’d already read Hogwarts, a History from cover to cover three times, and she’d bought a few other books about the history and culture of the wizarding world as well. It was like reading about a completely different world, like Narnia or Terabithia, only she could get to enter it for real. She’d devoured as much information as she could, and after getting her wand (10 3/4 inches long, vinewood, with a dragon heartstring core) had even tried a few simple spells at home (Reparo, from 101 Handy Household Spells, by A. B. Tonks, was her favorite so far); she’d gotten most of them to work, though she’d had to try very hard the first few times. Still it was a treat every time she got to Diagon Alley – it was the only magical place she knew so far – and she was extra excited to visit today, because it was only a few weeks before classes would begin at Hogwarts, school lists had finally been given out, and (according to Professor McGonagall) many of the people who would be attending Hogwarts with her would also be at Diagon Alley buying their supplies. Hermione had not fit in very well with the non-magical children of her neighborhood once her magic had begun manifesting itself, so she was very much looking forward to making new friends.

After a brief stop at Madam Malkins’s Robes for All Occasions, where Hermione ordered several school uniforms and a set of casual over-robes, the latter which she promptly wore, she headed straight for Flourish and Blotts. She had browsed for awhile, and was trying to decide whether to choose an eagle-feather quill (strikingly handsome, but also a bit pricey) or a crow-feather quill (it made very nice, fine lines, but it seemed to be quite morbid, somehow) while her parents waited in line for the clerk to come back with the selection on her book list. She’d seen a lot of children around her age or a bit older, and a few a little younger – just now she’d had to avoid an aisle crowded by a gaggle of red-heads, including a very noisy pair of twins – but she had yet to strike up a conversation or make her first friend. And then she heard a voice:

“If you’re not sure which to get, choose the crow’s quill. That’s the only eagle quill left and I want it.”

She turned around, her eyes catching first on a very blonde, very shiny head of hair that she immediately wanted to run her fingers through, before they moved down towards a rather pointy, pale face that reminded her of a ferret. The boy, who looked to be roughly her age, maybe a little younger, and was around half a head shorter than herself, raised a pale golden eyebrow and smirked up at her, already reaching for the eagle-feather quill. Hermione almost gave it up without a fight but pulled back at the last second. “Why should I give it to you? If it’s so nice, maybe I’ll keep it for myself. You can have the crow’s quill.”

“I have enough black stuff,” the boy replied. “You can put the crow quill back if you don’t want it. Swan’s quills are all the rage with girls now anyway, so you should get one.”

Hermione frowned. “So just because other girls want swan quills, I ought to get one?”

The boy shrugged. “They’re pretty.”

Well, it wasn’t like she could argue with that. They _were_ pretty – she just didn’t want one of them. Oh whatever. She did kind of like the crow-feather quills, so she handed the eagle-feather quill to the boy. There was no real reason that both of them couldn’t be happy. “Are you shopping for Hogwarts too?” she asked.

The boy smiled now, and Hermione was surprised at how much friendlier he looked. “Yes, I’m starting this year. What year are you in?”

“I’ll be entering this year too, I missed last year’s cut-off by a few weeks. What House do you think you’ll be in?”

The boy’s smile grew wider and Hermione could see that he was proud and excited about his answer. “I’ll be in Slytherin, all of my family has been.”

“Ambitious, are you?” Hermione smiled herself. “And your whole family too. You have it easy. My mother wants me to be a Gryffindor, but my father prefers that I be a Ravenclaw. It’s causing a bit of an argument at home.”

“And what do you want to be?”

“Anything as long as I’m not Hufflepuff,” Hermione replied, making the boy laugh. She laughed too, more out of relief and surprise than anything else – she’d never been able to pull off a joke so easily before. This boy was easy to talk to. She wondered, could she have met her first friend? She wasn’t sure how long one had to talk with someone before one could consider that person a friend, but if he were her first friend, she didn’t think she could imagine a better one. He was interesting, fairly well-mannered, he laughed at her jokes, and his hair was absolutely perfect.

“I’m Draco by the way. Draco Malfoy.” 

She smiled at him. “Hermione, Hermione Granger.”

* * *

She had the largest, nicest smile he had ever seen.

That was what struck Draco the most: how big her smile was, like she were actually happy to make his acquaintance. In his young life, he’d already met enough people who were simply smarming up to the Malfoy name and wealth to be able to tell when a smile wasn’t genuine, but hers was as true as time. Her name had barely rung a bell (he knew some potioneer or other named Granger, it was on one of his Chocolate Frog cards), but she was wearing proper over-robes, talked quite freely about Hogwarts, and had said her parents had already tried to choose a House for her. Probably they’d been in different Houses back in school. She wasn’t Sacred 28 of course, probably a first- or second-generation Halfblood, but it wasn’t like she could help who her relatives were, could she?

She’d given him the eagle-feather quill he’d been after, so for all intents and purposes he could’ve left, but he found himself continuing to chat. She was an enjoyable conversationalist. She told him she’d already tried some spells out with her new wand, and he’d told her about his own attempts at the Color-Changing Charm (“That’s not in our textbooks yet, you’re really advanced!”). She said her parents hadn’t allowed her to get a pet, but she was planning on convincing them to let her buy an owl of her own by getting good marks. He told her she could borrow his owl in school, if she wanted, although Branwen was very choosy about whom she allowed to pet her.

“Thanks!” she replied, beaming that extra-large smile at him again. Her eyes swept around the shop, then, “Oh!” she said, “my parents have my books now,” and dashed off. She stopped after a few steps and turned swiftly on her heel, still smiling widely, and Draco found himself smiling in return. “It was nice meeting you, Draco Malfoy!” she called out, waving. He waved back at her until she had darted towards a couple who must have been her parents –

– and that was when Draco’s smile faded. Hermione Granger’s parents were wearing the sort of clothes that only meant one thing: they were Muggles. She wasn’t a halfblood at all – she was a Muggleborn.

* * *

Hermione made her second friend on the train to Hogwarts. His name was Neville Longbottom. He was a soft, portly boy whose shy and cringing attitude made him seem smaller than he actually was, and her heart went out to him at once. He’d lost a toad, which he had apparently been keeping in his pocket. Why he hadn’t thought to bring a pet carrier or maybe some sort of leash (if toads could be leashed), Hermione didn’t know, but he seemed quite upset so she didn’t voice her thoughts aloud. Instead, she’d very kindly offered to help look for the toad, and the two of them began to comb through the train. They'd gone into five train cars before Hermione saw a familiar face.

She smiled immediately. “Hello, Draco,” she chirruped, cheerfully drawing Neville along behind her as she entered the carriage. She ignored the nonplussed expressions of the other kids in the car – two large, muscular boys with typical crew cuts; a graceful, dark-skinned one, with curly hair falling in an artful mess into his eyes; a slender boy who was tucked into a corner of the car with a book, his overlong hair obscuring his face; and two girls who were seated next to each other, one with a curtain of dark hair and the other with large, smooth, sandy-brown curls that Hermione would envy for the rest of her life. “Have you seen a toad? Neville’s lost his.”

Draco didn’t answer immediately, and Hermione felt a moment of nervousness – had she done something wrong? Finally though, he replied, “No, I haven’t.” He inclined his head briefly towards Neville. “Longbottom,” he said.

“Malfoy,” Neville replied, quietly.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you knew each other,” Hermione remarked, feeling better already. “Anyway, thanks, we’ve got to go around the other cars, see you at school I suppose!”

And she had dashed off again, Neville in tow. “Maybe we’ll find him faster if we split up, do you think?” she said, as they exited the car. With a small, rueful shake of his head, Draco got up to close the door behind them.

“Who was that, Malfoy?” the dark-haired girl, Pansy Parkinson, wanted to know, as soon as the pair of intruders had left and Draco had sat back down. “She seemed to know you.”

She didn't add, though it was obvious to everyone in that compartment since they had been acquaintances and even friends since they had been learning to walk, _if you know each other, why don't we know her too?_

“Some girl named Granger,” Draco replied shortly. “I met her at Flourish and Blotts when I was buying school supplies.”

“Just met? She seemed awfully chummy with you,” Blaise Zabini, the dark-skinned boy, observed. Draco just shrugged, so Zabini continued, “Though, she seems quite chummy with Longbottom too. If she’s related to Sacred 28 somehow, I wonder why I’ve never met her before? I rather think I’d remember that hair.”

“Her hair?”

Draco had honestly never noticed her hair before – being preoccupied as he was with her smile – and so was confused. Pansy was laughing. “I bet you would’ve!” she chortled. “It looked like you could hide a cauldron in it!”

Daphne Greengrass, who had been Pansy’s best friend since they were three, but was quieter and gentler of disposition, smiled as well. “It was rather poufy,” she said. “I wonder why her mother didn’t just charm it smooth.”

“Maybe her mother can’t,” Blaise replied, shrugging. “She might be a halfblood, that would explain why we’ve never seen her before, wouldn’t it?”

The girls’ mouths made a little O of understanding. “Oh, poor girl. Of course her father wouldn’t know any decent hair charms, and her mother is useless,” Daphne nodded. “Well, she’ll learn quickly enough, at Hogwarts.”

Draco made a little sound of dissatisfaction, unsure of whether he should clear up that little misunderstanding or not. On the one hand, Daphne would feel terrible for having a moment of sympathy for a Muggleborn. On the other hand, he’d actually liked Granger for awhile, when he hadn’t known what she was. He’d never met a Muggleborn before Granger, but she had seemed alright, even though her manners were different from any of the people he normally associated with. It wasn’t her fault her parents were Muggles. Plus, it really wasn’t his friends’ business – they’d find out soon enough. He decided he’d let them find out the information on their own.

* * *

Later on, she’d gotten sorted into Gryffindor, and he had the fleeting thought that her mother would be happy. He got into Slytherin, as expected, and that was the end of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta for this chapter is Witchy74woman. Thank you!


	3. The First Steps to Being A Real Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's expectations of Potions and Flying are grossly inaccurate. Some very irresponsible adults are involved.

Hermione quickly discovered that life at Hogwarts was not at all what she expected.

For one thing, several weeks had passed and still the only person who hung out with her was Neville Longbottom, and sometimes Harry Potter, whom she’d met on the train. She rather thought she might be friends with Harry, but he hung out the most with Ron Weasley, the other boy who’d been in his compartment. Hermione got the feeling that Ron didn’t like her very much, so she mostly stayed out of their way. She didn’t seek to hang out with the other people in their House. For some reason, everyone had paired up into inseparable units – Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, Fay Dunbar and Alice Runcorn, and of course, Harry and Ron; the only people left were Hermione and Neville, who inevitably ended up stuck with each other. Hermione liked Neville rather well, but the plain fact was that she had rather hoped to make a lot of friends while she was at Hogwarts, and Neville, as reliable and sweet as he was, was nowhere near “a lot”. Plus (even though she’d never complain about it) Neville was a rather one-trick pony; ask him anything about herbology and he could hold court for hours on end, but any other subject would reduce him almost to tears – and Hermione was bored.

She missed the quick wit and easy banter she’d enjoyed with Draco before school had begun. So she’d tried to approach him several times since classes started – Slytherin and Gryffindor shared Flying and Potions classes – but then she discovered something else that wasn’t in the books she had read: Slytherins, apparently, hated Gryffindors. And the feeling was mutual.

Their first shared class was Potions, which was taught by Professor Snape. Snape was a middle-aged, pale man with long, dark hair, with an almost Bela Lugosi – vampiric look about him: his robes swished dramatically as he strode down the classroom, and his voice, which was never actually loud, somehow still seemed to permeate into the smallest nooks of their classroom, which was in the dungeons. Hermione wondered if there were some point to having Potions classes in the dungeons, which were cold and gloomy and dark, but maybe it had something to do with the floors being made completely of stone and thus fire-proof, or maybe it was because Snape was the Head of Slytherin House and their common room (apparently) was somewhere nearby. It hadn’t mattered, because Professor Snape was impressive.

He’d started class with roll call, which was normal enough, and he’d stopped at Harry’s name to remark on his celebrity status, which was also normal enough from what Hermione had observed (Professor Flitwick had actually squeaked and fallen off his chair). But after calling everyone, he’d said gravely, “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic.” He looked around at them, and Hermione almost felt like he was speaking directly to her. She wanted to say, _I think it’s magical, I think proper witches and wizards should be brewing potions all the time,_ and she wondered if he could read her mind as his gaze passed over her. He continued, “I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." 

Granted, that last line floored her. She’d never heard a teacher sound so disdainful before.

There was silence in the classroom. “Potter!” said Snape suddenly, pivoting to face Harry, who was seated in the second row just behind Hermione. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Hermione knew. The Draught of the Living Death, mentioned in the introduction of Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger. Her hand shot up. If Harry couldn’t answer maybe she –

“I don't know, sir,” said Harry. Inwardly, Hermione rejoiced: she could help, she knew, this would be the first time she would be called in Potions class!

Instead, Snape's lips curled into a sneer. He ignored Hermione’s hand as he said, “Clearly, fame isn't everything... Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Hermione, who had momentarily lowered her hand, shot it upwards again; and at Harry’s next words, she unconsciously began to wiggle it in the air, impatient to be called. “I don't know, sir,” Harry said, and Snape remarked, “Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”

Hermione looked at Harry, torn. On the one hand, she agreed with Snape; shouldn’t have Harry at least read some of his book before class? On the other hand, Snape seemed to be brow-beating him, and he was still ignoring her own hand.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?” Snape asked again, still looking only at Harry. Hermione, who hadn’t even lowered her hand anymore, got to her feet, the better to raise her hand high.

“I don't know,” she heard Harry say quietly. She glanced at him again. He seemed a bit upset. “I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?”

Her focus returned to the front immediately and she prepared to answer – but, “Sit down,” Snape snapped at her. She obeyed, confused and embarrassed. Why had Snape ignored her? Hermione had never not been the teachers’ favorite before, let alone just ignored in class, like she didn’t exist. Snape seemed to have it in for Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors. But Hermione didn’t have much time to wonder, because Snape continued with the lesson. “For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?”

Her parchment and quill were already laid out in front of her. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she dipped her crow’s feather into the pot of ink, and began to write.

* * *

Draco had to admit, he was impressed with the speed at which Granger’s hand hit the air, and her fortitude when Snape acted so dismissively of her. He was a little distracted by the fact that Snape apparently had it in for The Chosen One – surprising, considering how much everyone else fawned over Harry Potter, but it was a refreshing and enjoyable change. Potter was a menace and needed to be taken down a peg or two. Draco had offered friendship once, and guidance; he knew that Potter had been raised by Muggles, and wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to navigate proper Wizarding society. So he’d offered his acquaintance and his services; but Potter had only said coldly that he could figure out “the wrong sort” for himself – and thus he had earned Draco’s enmity.

Draco was something of a celebrity in his own House, if only because of the prestige of the Malfoy name, but it was not an achievement of any sort. It was something that he’d experienced since infancy. In his childhood he had simply accepted that his mother spoke to the Minister of Magic by name, and various dignitaries would ingratiate themselves with his father. He’d accepted it as his due. They were Malfoys, respected even among the Sacred 28 for their wealth and prestige; they were very nearly royalty. It was therefore a bit of a shock when Harry Potter - another celebrity, and therefore someone whom he had expected to be walking the same circles with - had turned him down. More than the shock was the sheer embarrassment: how dare this boy, whom he had so graciously approached, turn him down? In public no less. And for what, a Weasley?

Even at ten years old Draco knew that there were more social advantages to befriending a Malfoy than a Weasley.

This single encounter had told Draco one thing: Harry Potter was either an idiot, or he was really, fantastically, oblivious to social cues. Even Granger, a Muggleborn, was more aware of how things were like in proper society. He’d observed her, more than once, staring at Weasley with a kind of horrified fascination as he demolished entire supper platters that were meant to be shared by three or four people. Her eyes would turn large and round and her eyebrows would disappear under the fringe of her hair, and her smile would turn into a prim little moue as she struggled not to say anything. She would ever-so-carefully place a small amount of food on her own plate, cut it into regular pieces, bring each tiny bite to her mouth, chew, and swallow, all while making side-eyes at Weasley as he enthusiastically chatted with his mouth full. Potter seemed to find it funny, or at least he didn’t mind. Were both Potter and Granger really raised by Muggles?

Potions class made Potter’s incompetence even more obvious. Hadn’t he even bothered to open his books? Granger obviously had. He found himself snickering when Potter kept on failing to answer Snape’s questions. Poor Granger, she was never going to be called. Draco had heard of Snape’s teaching methods before - he would come down very strictly on people whom he perceived to not be doing their work. He was not concerned with the students who were doing well in class, but he would eat someone alive for being “a dunderhead”.

“D’you reckon Potter knows he’s just making things worse for himself?” Blaise Zabini whispered from his seat on Draco’s left. They'd known each other since they were children; his mother was a famous Pureblood beauty and a close contemporary of Draco’s mother in their Hogwarts days, and when they’d both gotten pregnant around the same time, they had instantly bonded over it. Blaise had been a visitor to Malfoy Manor even before he could walk. And, Draco knew that Blaise - unlike Theodore Nott, whom they had also grown up with - Blaise was a talker. He chatted up anyone who was within a two-meter radius, and once he started, he would not stop. He would land them both in detention if Snape heard them talking. He might favor his snakes, but he did not tolerate any form of distraction in his class. Draco elbowed Blaise to keep him quiet. Blaise grimaced and shut up. 

“...which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?” Snape was saying. Draco shot an icy glare at Blaise - he’d missed the first part of Snape’s lecture, apparently. At least he already knew where to find a bezoar and he knew that monkshood and wolfsbane were also known as aconite, so he could fill that in himself, but he hadn’t heard the asphodel part; he’d have to re-read the book later. He took his new eagle-feather quill, a pot of color-changing ink, and some parchment out of his bag, and elbowed Blaise again just because he was annoyed.

The class proceeded, and Draco hoped he wouldn’t miss anything else.

* * *

Hermione had hoped that maybe Snape was just a biased teacher, which was not good but was something she could deal with… she hoped. She’d never not been the teacher’s favorite before, to be honest, but she was a big girl now, she could handle one mean teacher. It bothered her more that when Harry was being bullied and she’d been desperately trying to catch Snape’s attention, she’d heard a kind-of familiar voice snickering. A glance to the fourth row, where the sound was coming from, told her that Draco (who was sitting with one of the boys from the train, the dark graceful one) had been laughing quietly. She’d been caught off-kilter. Was he laughing at her?

Hermione had noticed that Draco was rather popular in school, or at least among the Slytherins. As early as the first breakfast in the Great Hall, he’d collected a passel of friends, notably the four boys from the train; she had so far found out that the two large boys were called Crabbe and Goyle (she wasn’t sure which was which). Crabbe and Goyle followed Draco around like bodyguards and he swaggered like he paid them for such services. Even now in Potions class, they sat just behind him, in the last row. The pale Goth boy was also nearby, his nose in a book. During mealtimes and in the hallways between classes she sometimes overheard them telling long, boastful stories that always seemed to end with them narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters; complaining about how first years never got on the house Quidditch teams or how the food at Hogwarts was never as good as the food at home; or sneering at people for their hair or clothes or something. Now it seemed like they were laughing at her. She frowned; this didn’t sit well with her. Wasn’t Draco supposed to be her first Hogwarts friend? But she didn’t like this version of Draco so much. He was mean. Where was the boy who’d eagerly told her about his efforts at fifth-year spells and what it was like the first time he rode a broom? Instead he seemed to be ignoring her and making fun of practically everyone in the castle.

So it seemed that, instead of having two friends, she had one. 

She resolved not to let it bother her. If Neville would be her only friend, then so be it. She would at least get high marks, and then her parents would let her get an owl. She felt a pang at the memory: she’d never even gotten to meet Branwen. Well, if Draco wouldn’t be her friend anymore, there was no way she was borrowing his owl. She remembered that the Prefect (Ron’s brother, Percy) who had explained things to the first years had said that the school had post owls that anyone could use, so it wasn’t much of a loss, not really.

She wished very hard that she could convince herself.

* * *

The truth was, Draco admitted to himself about three weeks into classes, he kind of missed Granger. He’d enjoyed being with her that one time, and now he realized why: as a Muggleborn, she had no idea who the Malfoys were, what that name signified. She had interacted with him because of who he was, not what his family could give her. And she was interesting; he hardly knew anything about her, really, but it had been pleasant to get to know her. As popular as he was among his Housemates, all them were either Pureblood – mostly Sacred 28, like himself, children he’d known practically since they were all in perambulators – or Halfbloods who’d been raised in the wizarding world. He would never be able to interact with them as only Draco, and there was nothing new he could learn about them, not really.

Case in point: Granger, who was at the top of their class in most subjects, turned out to be horrible at flying.

When the first Broom Flight Classes were held, the Gryffindors had arrived late and the Slytherins were already arrayed next to the school brooms that were lying on the ground. Madame Hooch, the flying instructor, had (thankfully) not made any comment about Potter, but instead launched into a lecture on basic broom safety and flying techniques. He’d mostly tuned her out - as he’d told Granger when they first met, he’d been flying for years. She’d then sent each student to stand next to a school broom and told them to demonstrate the things she had explained. The first step was ridiculously simple: one simply had to put one’s hand over the broom and summon it by saying “up”.

Draco did it immediately, then looked around at his classmates. As expected, Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Daphne had all managed to summon their brooms. None of them were particularly good fliers, especially not compared to Draco, but they had all grown up playing Quidditch at home and could manage such simple tasks.To his surprise, Potter had managed it too, as had Weasley; but Longbottom’s broom hadn’t moved an inch, and Granger’s broom had half-heartedly rolled over once before going still.

Madame Hooch was now telling them to mount their brooms, so Draco - still looking at Granger, who had not yet succeeded in getting her broom in the air - swung his leg over carelessly and sat down.

“Mr Malfoy, I hope that’s not how you’ve been sitting on your broom all this time, or I shall have a word with your father about the possibility of never getting new Malfoy heirs,” he heard Hooch say.

Blaise snickered. Draco glared at him, then raised his chin and looked directly at the flying instructor. “I’ve been flying for years,” he informed her curtly, cheeks beginning to flare in embarrassment.

She didn’t seem impressed. “Your legs are at an awkward angle and your balance is awful. If you’ve been flying like that for years I’d be surprised if you haven’t broken something until now.”

She was right, of course. Draco realized it as soon as he’d heard Blaise snicker. Frankly, he’d been too busy staring at Granger to pay attention to how he mounted his broom. But he would never admit to being wrong, not to someone who had seen him embarrassed. He stayed in his position, staring impassively at Hooch until she rolled her eyes at his stubbornness and moved on to the next person. Then he quickly adjusted himself into the right position.

He would never live this down, he thought. But the opportunity to distract others from his slip-up came quicker than he expected. Madam Hooch had hardly blown the whistle to kick off when Longbottom, looking extremely nervous, shot twenty feet into the air, wobbled, and fell off. What an idiot. He was a pureblood, wasn’t he? Why was he acting like he’d never been on a broom before?

Hooch quickly ran towards Longbottom and looked him over, then murmured something; Longbottom got up and promptly started to cry.

Wow. Just… wow. Crying? Over a simple Quidditch injury? What was Longbottom, five? Draco had been four when he had first broken a bone from flying. His father had told him to suck it up and his mother had called the Healer, who fixed it in about two seconds and gave him a lolly. He still cried whenever he got injured, but it wasn’t because it hurt, it was because he knew that his mother would give him anything he wanted - and if he gave good enough reasons to not just suck it up while he cried, even his father would give in.

Without missing a beat Hooch turned to the class and said in a firm voice, “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch’." She told Neville to “come along, dear,” in a gentler voice, and led the tearful Gryffindor away.

Draco started to laugh. It was priceless. Catching Blaise’s eye, he said, “Did you see his face, the great lump?” Soon most of the Slytherins were laughing too. But the Gryffindors were not amused.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped a girl with strong Indian features. She looked vaguely familiar.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

Oh, that was why she looked familiar. He remembered her now, her name was Patil. She had a twin. They used to live near the Parkinsons, and maybe still did, he didn’t know. Pansy usually came over to the Manor to play; he’d rarely ever been to their house - wait, what was that in the grass? Was it -? It was!

Draco darted forward and snatched up the thing he’d seen. It was a small, glass ball, a little bigger than a Snitch: a Remembrall, if he remembered the posters at Diagon Alley correctly. Some sort of trendy new product to help forgetful people remember things. He’d seen it arrive among the morning mail at breakfast; he’d tried to take a closer look at it, but he’d been unable to because McGonagall had made him give it back. “Look! It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

* * *

Hermione was feeling extremely put out.

Growing up, Hermione had gravitated towards books and movies that had magic, especially strong, smart girls who could do magic - Matilda, Howl’s Moving Castle, Bed-knob and Broomstick, Wicked, Kiki’s Delivery Service - and there was one thing she was sure of: having magic involved being able to fly. Usually on a broomstick, with a small cauldron full of potions and a black cat familiar hanging on for dear life. Her parents hadn’t allowed her to bring a pet and Potions class was not fun, so she’d been looking forward to flight class. She hadn’t been outwardly as excited as Harry or Ron (or, really, any of the boys except for Neville), but she’d really been looking forward to this, one of the Real Steps to Being A Witch. Granted, she’d never been particularly good at sports or anything physical, but flying a broom just involved sitting on the broom, right?

Wrong.

Turns out, broom flying was more like trying to ride a horse. A very temperamental horse, that might decide that he wanted to roll on the grass rather than listen to his rider, and then suddenly jump into the air and zoom away. The first time she’d tried to summon the broom it had turned over lazily; the second time it had whacked her palm so hard that she’d let go of it almost immediately. She was already injured and she hadn’t even gotten on the broom yet!

“Up!” she heard Harry say for the first time - he’d spent some time looking at his classmates before he tried, himself - and she tried very hard not to be frustrated when the broom leapt right into the perfect position for Harry to mount it. Ron had managed it too - so had Dean and Seamus. On the Slytherin side, only Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t - but as she watched, they both managed to get the brooms to mounting height as well. Well, she couldn’t have that! She glared at her broom, lying by her feet as if it were completely innocent.

“UP!” she insisted, and this time the broom leapt docilely into her hand. She huffed, trying to remember what Madame Hooch had said. Lift your less-dominant knee over the handle and use both hands to bring the broomstick between your legs. Lower your leg but keep your knees slightly bent. Squat slightly until you can feel the cushioning charm touch your bottom, then slide backwards until you are firmly seated…

She could feel eyes on her, and she wondered if she were the last person to get on her broom. She glanced around: Neville had mounted, even though he looked nervous; and so had Parvati, and Lavender… Madame Hooch was approaching Malfoy. She couldn’t quite hear the conversation but the boy went red and looked mutinous. She didn’t have time to ponder about Malfoy, though, as Madame Hooch was continuing her rounds. She soon reached Hermione.

“You look like you’ve been Petrified,” the instructor remarked. “I’ve never seen anyone so stiff! Relax a little, girl! It’s only a broom!”

Hermione, however, could not relax; she had begun to feel very much on display, and was getting a severe case of performance anxiety. She tried very hard to will her shoulders down and her grip to be looser. She didn’t think she had succeeded, but she must have visibly relaxed a little because Madame Hooch made a small half-approving noise and moved on.

Far too soon for Hermione, Madame Hooch had returned to her original position in front of the class. She informed the class that they would be kicking off on the sound of her whistle - three… two… one -

To her left, Neville gave a strangled, nervous squeak, and kicked off. His broom shot into the air and he was twenty feet up before anyone could react. Hermione could see Neville’s eyes grow rounder and rounder; as if in slow motion, she saw him begin to teeter; and then time sped up again and suddenly Neville was on the ground crying. She started to run towards him but stopped when she saw that their teacher had gotten there first; she would be able to help Neville better than Hermione could. In a matter of moments Madame Hooch had gotten Neville up and announced that she was taking him to the Hospital Wing. As they left, she told the class under no uncertain terms that they were not to touch the brooms without her.

For just a split second Hermione wondered why there wasn’t a teacher’s aide or something to take over the class, or better yet to accompany Neville to the Hospital Wing while Madame Hooch continued the class. Certainly in her Muggle primary school the children had never been left unattended. But she was soon distracted when she heard Draco say, “Did you see his face, the great lump?”

She wanted to defend Neville, really. That was a cruel thing to say. But Draco was her friend, wasn’t he? One didn’t tell off one’s friends, right?

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Parvati said. Hermione smiled in relief. At least someone was defending Neville.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said one of the Slytherins, the dark-haired girl Hermione had seen on the train, whom she thought was named Pansy. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

Hermione wasn’t friends with Pansy. She could very well tell her off.

But she’d no sooner opened her mouth than she was interrupted, this time by Draco, who had suddenly darted forward and picked something up from the grass. He held it up triumphantly. “Look! It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him!”

The Remembrall glittered in Draco’s hand, and Hermione frowned at it, then at Draco. That wasn’t Draco’s, that was Neville’s. He shouldn’t have it. She was about to step forward to take the Remembrall back when Harry beat her to the punch. “Give it here, Malfoy,” he said quietly, earning a nasty smile from Draco, who for one reason or another seemed to have a special beef against Harry. Oh no, Hermione thought, Harry’s going to make it worse, isn’t he?

“I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find - how about - up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying at Flourish and Blotts or even in the hallways: he could fly well, though Hermione sincerely doubted he’d ever seen a Muggle helicopter let alone outflown one. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry grabbed his broom. Hermione’s eyes widened when she realized what he was about to do. It was too late to stop Draco and he wouldn’t listen to her but Harry was still on the ground - they were friends, kind of, so she didn’t want to tell him off - but Madam Hooch said they’d be expelled - all this flashed through her mind in a split-second. "No!" she shouted, panic overpowering her hesitancy. “Madam Hooch told us not to move - you'll get us all into trouble.”

But Harry ignored her. Of course.

Thankfully (or maybe not), it turned out that Harry was a natural on a broom. Very quickly he was level with Draco and had turned his broomstick sharply to face the other boy. Draco looked stunned. Maybe he’d expected Harry to have some trouble as a first-time flyer. Certainly Hermione and Neville had had trouble. Hermione heard Harry’s voice calling out, “Give it here, or I'll knock you off that broom!”

“No, Harry!” she gasped, worry over the disciplinary actions Harry would receive, the points that would be lost for Gryffindor, and the possible injuries Draco might receive rolling over her in a wave. She could see that Draco had said something to Harry but she couldn’t hear him. In fact, it seemed like she couldn’t hear anything, only watch in horror as Harry shot his broom towards Draco, who only just got out of the way on time; and after another brief exchange of words, Draco had thrown the Remembrall into the air and streaked towards the ground, where he made a clean touchdown not two moments later. Hermione followed him with her gaze just long enough to determine that he was safe on the ground, and then she was watching Harry, who had suddenly entered a steep dive to try to catch the falling ball. She was pressing her fingernails into her cheeks but she could hardly feel them - he stretched out his hand - a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

And then Hermione’s heart started pounding and all the sounds she’d been missing came rushing back to her ears, including a very loud and familiar voice shouting, "HARRY POTTER!"

Hermione’s head whipped towards the castle to see that Professor McGonagall, their transfiguration teacher and Head of House, was running toward them. She looked absolutely furious and was so mad she could hardly form complete sentences. “Never - in all my time at Hogwarts - how dare you - might have broken your neck -"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor," Parvati tried to defend Harry.

"Be quiet, Miss Patil -" McGonagall had grabbed Harry’s shoulders and was roughly turning him about, apparently checking for injuries.

"But Malfoy -" That was Ron now.

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley.” She finished and seemed to be content that Harry was alive and well, though still angry and nervous. “Potter, follow me, now." She began to move swiftly towards the castle, her clean, large strides showing the remains of her temper. Hermione bit her lips, hoping that Harry wouldn’t be expelled. He shouldn’t have let himself be baited, but it was for Neville, so he was doing the right thing, wasn’t he?

Hermione tried to ignore the sinking feeling she got when she noticed that Draco was looking inordinately pleased as he and his cronies watched Harry go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My alphabet for this chapter is Killer_Queen201. She made a remark about "moue", so just in case anyone was wondering, it's defined as "a pouting expression used to convey annoyance or distaste". Oxford Dictionary definition: https://www.lexico.com/en/definition/moue.
> 
> Much of this chapter's dialogue and some of the scene-building was lifted from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
> 
> This fic now has a Chinese translation in the works, care of Kenrin.


	4. The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ron are annoying, Draco is confused, Pansy teaches him a new word, and Hermione is bullied.

Hermione believed that school made one a reasonable person. Her parents were both dentists who had gone to good schools, and they had instilled in their only child the value of education. Education, they told her, gave one the skills necessary to become a fully-functional adult, but more importantly, it taught one how to be rational, open-minded, and responsible.

Hogwarts would seriously shake this belief.

It wasn’t that Hermione couldn’t think of how changing a matchstick into a needle (A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Chapter 1) or floating a feather (Levitation Charm, The Standard Book of Spells, page 37) could help her become a fully-functional magical adult. Like any skill, she supposed she would have to start with small, easy objects, and level up to more complicated things. But when she came into the Great Hall the evening after their first Flying Lesson, worrying over whether Harry - and, to a lesser degree, Draco, since she didn’t think he’d been caught - would be expelled, she learned one particular thing about Hogwarts that she didn’t think her parents would’ve wanted her learning: you needn’t deal with the usual consequences, if you were The Boy Who Lived.

(It was a lesson that Harry himself was learning, but she wouldn’t find that out until much later, when it would be too late.)

Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table with a half-eaten plate of steak-and-kidney pie and mushed peas, telling Ronald Weasley something about Wood and Quidditch. Ron had been eating dinner himself, but at Harry’s most recent words he stopped, his eyes growing larger than Hermione had ever seen on another human being, and said, “Seeker? But first years never - you must be the youngest player in -”

“- a century, Wood told me,” Harry replied, then took another large bite of pie. Shaking her head, Hermione took a seat just behind Harry. She had not seen Neville at the dinner table yet; he must still be at the Hospital Wing. She silently helped herself to her own dinner. She wasn’t fond of kidneys and wasn’t about to touch the pie that Harry and Ron had nearly finished off, but the battered fish-and-chips dish looked nice, and there were little spinach quiches that looked like they’d be worth risking a bout of lactose intolerance. She took some of each, helped herself to a small bunch of grapes for dessert, and poured out a goblet of pumpkin juice to round everything off. She had tried pumpkin juice for the first time on the Hogwarts Express, and while she’d been rather on the fence about it then, she’d decided that she rather liked it, and now usually drank it at every meal.

As she ate, two more redheads (Fred and George Weasley, two of Ron’s older brothers - they were rather popular in Gryffindor, with a reputation as clowns and pranksters, though personally Hermione had yet to see them being particularly funny) came and talked to Harry. Ron had gone back to eating his dinner and was ignoring his brothers. They looked to be in a hurry and spoke only in low voices. Hermione shrugged and picked up her knife and fork to cut herself a slice of quiche.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar blonde head coming closer, followed by two hulking shadows. What was Draco doing at the Gryffindor table? She put a piece of spinach quiche into her mouth - she had been right, it was absolutely delicious - and watched as he approached Harry (of course, what did she expect?) and said, “Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?”

Good question, actually. Not that she was hoping that Harry would get expelled, but he was looking decidedly chipper for someone who’d been hauled out of class by a fuming Deputy Headmistress, after having openly flouted a direct order from a teacher and thus endangering himself.

But instead of looking down, Harry merely replied, “You’re a lot braver now you’re back on the ground and you’ve got your little friends with you.” She couldn’t see his face from her seat, but from his voice she could guess that he must be looking pretty smug. And of course he’d thrown out fighting words, which annoyed her, but - well, Draco was acting pretty offensively himself. He could’ve asked nicely. Actually, he might’ve kept his hands to himself in the first place and not gotten Harry in trouble at all. Now that she thought about it, Hermione was feeling pretty irked at the two of them. No, at the four of them, she thought, as she noticed Crabbe and Goyle cracking their knuckles threateningly. What was it with boys and their posturing?

“I’d take you on any time on my own,” said Draco, and Hermione let out a tiny huff of annoyance. “Tonight, if you want. Wizard’s duel. Wands only – no contact.”

She felt her eyebrows fly up her forehead. A duel! What in the world?

“What’s the matter? Never heard of a wizard’s duel before, I suppose?” Malfoy asked. She could tell he was trying to be helpful, trying to inform Harry, who had been raised by Muggles just like she had, but - if their Potions class had been any indication - was not given to reading up and was woefully uninformed… but could he sound a little less condescending?

“Of course he has,” said Ron, wheeling round and wiping his mouth with his sleeve; Hermione - and, she noticed, Draco - winced. “I’m his second, who’s yours?”

Draco took a moment before he replied, “Crabbe. Midnight all right? We’ll meet you in the trophy room, that’s always unlocked.” Harry nodded, and Draco spun on his heel and marched to the Slytherin table, beckoning his two minions to follow behind him. When Draco was out of earshot, Ron and Harry looked at each other.

“What is a wizard’s duel?” said Harry. “And what do you mean, you’re my second?”

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die,” said Ron casually, taking another large bite of pie. Harry must have looked shocked (thus telling Hermione that Harry had never heard of the rules of duels before, had probably never even read Stephen King’s The Gunslinger or even something historical like The Petticoat Duel) because Ron added, “but people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy’ll be able to do is send sparks at each other.”

Hermione sighed in relief. There was some logic in that boy after all, even though he shouldn’t have encouraged Harry in the first place. Well, he was a pureblood, so he probably knows something about duels and stuff like that. Wizardly stuff. Ron continued, “Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway.”

“And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?” Harry asked.

“Throw it away and punch him on the nose,” was Ron’s suggestion.

Hermione had had enough. She stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, catching the attention of both Harry and Ron. Ron looked annoyed.

“Can’t a person eat in peace in this place?” he said.

Hermione ignored him - he’d been stuffing his face all this time, while talking, she didn’t see why he was so bothered now - and spoke to Harry. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying –”

Ron muttered something under his voice, but Hermione wasn’t paying attention. “– and you mustn’t go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you’ll lose Gryffindor if you’re caught, and you’re bound to be.” She wanted to add, “You were already caught breaking the rules once and you were very lucky, it seems, but it’s not going to continue and you can’t expect it to.” But instead she settled for, “It’s really very selfish of you.”

“And it’s really none of your business,” said Harry, who looked put out at her advice.

“Goodbye,” said Ron.

Hermione frowned and sat back down. She wanted to make a snappy comeback, but she wouldn’t, because she wasn’t an utter child. Instead she stabbed her fork into a piece of fish and began to flake it apart. She wished Neville were around. Neville was a little boring and a bit of a crybaby, but he was sweet and he was sane and he was sensible, none of this foolish posturing. But he wasn’t, which meant that she was the only one at the Gryffindor table with any sense, and that meant she’d have to do something about the cockamamie scheme those three silly boys had cooked up.  


* * *

Around five hours later, Hermione was stationed at the chair nearest the hole behind the portrait of the Fat Lady, which was the only entrance and exit of the Gryffindor Common Room. Anyone who wanted to go anywhere would have to go past her; it was the best idea she could come up with, aside from telling on Harry and Ron to Percy or one of the other Gryffindor Prefects. But she’d nixed that idea because she didn’t want Gryffindor to lose points and Harry and Ron were sure to get docked if she told; and besides, they would know it was her, and they’d be angry. Hermione was still trying her best to make friends with everyone, and even though she didn’t like how Ron and Harry were acting, she still didn’t want to burn bridges unless she absolutely had to. So even though she had already changed for bed to her favorite bunny pyjamas and matching slippers, she had shrugged on her soft pink dressing-gown and gone on a stake- out, just like the Hardy Boys would when they were trying to catch a criminal. On a normal day, she’d be sleepy by nine or ten, but she was running on adrenaline and was sure she’d catch Harry and Ron trying to sneak out. The duel was supposed to be at midnight; it was already half-past eleven, so any time soon...

Footsteps hurried down the stairs and across the common room. Just as she’d expected! She was a regular Nancy Drew!

“I can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry,” she said disapprovingly, flicking on a lamp and moving so that she was directly in the way of the portrait-hole.

Ron was angry, of course, which made Hermione snap at him - she’d been trying to be patient since dinner, but really, he was too much. Harry wasn’t listening to her, but she wasn’t having any of that either - she followed Harry and Ron right out of the portrait-hole, hissing angrily at them the entire time. Finally she said her piece de resistance: “All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you’re on the train home tomorrow, you’re so –”

But as she turned to go back to the common room, she found that the portrait had shut and the Fat Lady was nowhere in the frame. Without the guardian to accept the password and open the door, Hermione was locked out of the tower. “Now what am I going to do?” she asked shrilly, annoyed that the boys had not only not listened to her, they’d gotten her locked out of the tower as well.

“That’s your problem,” said Ron, who plainly didn’t care. Then he said, more to Harry than to Hermione, “We’ve got to go, we’re going to be late.”

Hermione weighed her choices carefully. She was stuck out here; Argus Filch, the caretaker, would surely catch her while doing his rounds, and he was rumored to have chains and whips for punishing students out of bed. He wouldn’t believe her if she said Harry and Ron were out of bed, unless he managed to catch them too, but there was no way to make sure of that. On the other hand, if she were with the two of them, maybe she could do some damage control… Looking around, she saw that the boys were nearing the end of the corridor; she quickly ran towards them. “I’m coming with you,” she said.

This would be the beginning of a lifetime of trying to save the arses of Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, but Hermione wasn’t to know that yet.  


* * *

Draco was staring at the Gryffindor Table.

If anyone asked, he was looking to see if his plot had succeeded, and Potter and Weasley had gotten expelled from school. Which was partially true, but as of the moment his attention was captured completely by Hermione, who seemed to be falling asleep on her toast and tomatoes. She was talking quietly to Longbottom, who was looking equally tired. Both Hermione and Longbottom were eating mechanically; both seemed rather like they had an interrupted night, and Draco wondered why, since he was certain neither of them would have gone out for a nighttime stroll - or a midnight duel that didn’t exist.

She dropped her head onto Longbottom’s shoulder, and Draco found himself feeling vaguely put out.

“That Granger and Longbottom seem to be getting along rather well, don’t you think?” Pansy observed snidely, as she buttered a slice of toast. “The fat kid and the Mudblood.”

“Mudblood?”

Pansy shrugged. “Heard it from Daddy. Did you know that Muggles have dirty blood? Like, brown like mud, you know? Not like normal people.”

Draco nodded, though he was actually a little confused. He’d heard the word before. It was a Bad Word, the kind his mother would shush his father for if she heard him say it in public. He’d never known what it meant, though. But, now that he thought of it, blood did come in different colors. Unicorn blood was silver-blue; he’d seen some in a bottle that his father kept locked in his study, it was really rather pretty. Troll blood was green like swamp slime. Cockroach blood was white and foamy. It kind of made sense that Muggles would have different blood. They weren’t the same as wizards, after all. Though why that would be bad, exactly, he didn’t understand. Unicorns were not wizards, but they were not bad. Just different.

Anyway, Hermione was a witch. And he said so.

Pansy huffed. “Her parents are dirty, so she’s dirty too. It’s like, you know. If you have an egg and it falls on the floor, if you use it in a potion after, the potion’s no good. Because it’s dirty already.”

This did not make sense, because in Draco’s experience dirt was something you washed off, and you couldn’t use a broken egg in a potion anyway. Furthermore, he knew Pansy hadn’t always been so huffy about Hermione. “But you were okay with Granger, when you thought she was half-blood. On the train,” Draco reminded her.

Pansy shrugged. “If she were half-blood then part of her would still be okay,” she said, now layering lettuce, tomatoes, and cream cheese onto her toast. “You can’t blame a kid for what her parents do, she didn’t ask to be born.”

“But she didn’t ask to be born to Muggles either,” Draco said, logically.

Pansy scoffed as she put her open-faced sandwich on her plate and began to methodically slice it into neat quarters. Even though she wasn’t looking at Draco, he felt like she was judging him, weighing him on some sort of invisible scales. Still, he wanted to defend Hermione. She had seemed smart even before, back when they’d only met for the first time. He tried to reason out again, “I mean, Pans, there’s not much difference between a half-blood and a Muggle-born, is there?”

Pansy pursed her lips, still not looking at Draco, and he plowed forward. “And Granger, she seems to know what she’s doing. We’ve seen her in class, she always raises her hand to answer. She’s been beating me - me! - in all the classes except Flying. And, and not just me either, Theo too, and the Patil twin from Ravenclaw. Like, the three Purebloods with the highest grades in the year, and she’s beaten us all.”

Now Pansy looked at Draco, her eyes narrowing. He swallowed as he watched her take a large, insolent bite of her breakfast and chew with careful deliberation. If he felt like she was weighing him before, now he could feel the scales tipping off-balance, and he was on the losing end. Finally she swallowed her food and asked, “Why are you so interested in Granger anyway?”

The metaphorical scales tipped so wildly that Draco felt he was about to fall right off, and scrambled wildly for control. He shook his head violently, feeling a blush creep up his neck and onto his cheeks. “I’m not!” And then, in a smaller voice, “Just, I’ve never met a Mug - a, a Mudblood, before.”

From Pansy’s expression, Draco knew he’d done the right thing. She looked appeased by his use of the slur, and a little condescending as she informed him, “Daddy says when a Mudblood is good at magic, they’re probably stealing it from someone else.” She paused as if waiting for Draco to say something in reply, so Draco took a hasty drink of pumpkin juice to avoid speaking. Pansy’s eyes lost focus slightly once she realized that Draco wasn’t going to say anything; she looked like she was thinking of something as she took another bite of her sandwich and chewed carefully again. “Maybe that’s why Longbottom is so awful at class. Maybe someone should warn him,” she mumbled, then seemed to shrug it off. “Nah, that’s his problem. He ought to know what happens when you mix with the wrong sort.”

At that moment Draco was distracted from his reflections on Granger when the doors of the Great Hall opened and Potter and Weasley came in. Their happy faces told Draco that his plan to get them expelled or at least severely punished had not worked. Well, it was a lousy plan anyway; he’d only done it because he needed to save face after Potter had out-flown him in class. He’d expected Potter to back out immediately, but maybe there was a good reason for him to be in Gryffindor. He grimaced as he stabbed a sausage, and moodily began to eat his breakfast.  


* * *

Hermione was in love.

She’d fallen in love the moment she’d opened the doors of the Hogwarts Library for the first time, and seen how large it was: shelves from wall to wall, as far as her eyes could see - plainly it was bigger on the inside than it was outside, because magic. The air was heavy with the smell of old paper and ink, which surprised her because most of her classes had required parchment (which, to her knowledge, did not smell like anything). It practically hummed in her ears, so heavy was it with the contained magic; it was a space that she was convinced could contain worlds within itself, and she was eager to lose herself among the shelves.

(Hermione had grown up in the Muggle world, after all, and was not yet aware that in the magical world, “losing yourself amongst the shelves” could very much be literal, and that reading about going to Narnia was very much a different experience from actually ending up in Narnia, on a school day, wearing her Hogwarts uniform.)

This love had not lessened in the months since Hermione had started her magical studies. She felt it every time she entered the library, browsed the shelves, and settled into a chair; she was beginning to favor certain nooks, but as an “ickle firstie”(as Peeves, the Hogwarts poltergeist, put it) she didn’t yet have the status to reserve those favored nooks for her personal use.

She was sitting at one of those nooks - a sunny little bay window looking out into the courtyard, though how exactly Hermione wasn’t sure - humming to herself as she browsed a little before starting on her homework. “I love you more today than yesterday, but not as much as tomorrow,” she sang under her breath, her eyes scanning the table of contents to find the chapter she’d left off the night before. Suddenly, a shadow fell on her book. She looked up.

Three girls and two boys, one wearing the blue-and-bronze tie of Ravenclaw and the rest in the red-and-gold of Gryffindor, were arrayed around her. They seemed to be around fourth year, and were all considerably bigger than Hermione, who at twelve was older than most of her year-mates but had still to begin puberty. “Hey, Granger,” the taller boy, a Gryffindor - William or Wayne Portchester, Hermione guessed? - said, “you’re in our seat.”

Hermione glanced around. She was the only person, aside from these upper-years, in the area; there were empty tables all around them, and even four other bay window seats. There was no reason that they should want her seat, unless it was a particular favorite, and even then she had been first. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth it to stand her ground or if she should just move elsewhere.

Her hesitation did not please the group. One of the girls, whom Hermione vaguely remembered to be named Pauline Yarrow, snatched Hermione’s book away, and Hermione winced as she realized she’d lose her page again. “What is this you’re reading?” the girl said,jj turning the book in her hands so she could see the title. “‘Hogwarts, A History’?” she read, then laughed. It was an unkind sound and made Hermione flinch. “What are you, some kind of idiot? We’re already in Hogwarts, why would you need its history?”

The others laughed too. Hermione made a grab for her book and decided the seat wasn’t worth putting up with this. She shoved the book in her bag and made to stand up, but Portchester pushed her and she fell back onto the cushioned window-seat with a soft flump. “We’re not done yet, Granger,” the older boy said. “I don’t think you’ve learned yet, that when an older person tells you to give up your seat you ---”

He broke off with a yelp, clutching his side, and the others did so as well. Annoyed, they turned around to glower at a group of seven Slytherins, Malfoy at the lead; they had their wands out. Malfoy blew a small kiss on the tip of his wand in a show of dramatics. “Stinging Hex,” he said to Portchester, smirking. “And lots more where that came from.”

"You’ll pay for that, Malfoy,” one of the other boys said, advancing, but stopped when he saw Draco make a small gesture with one hand, his smirk growing wider. Draco was a slight child, slender and not particularly tall, with almost effeminate features, but he wore such an arrogant expression that you would think he were larger or stronger, and he commanded his two bodyguards with the ease of long habit. Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward from behind him, cracking their knuckles. Neither of them was particularly talented - it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, they were up against students three years above them - but they didn’t need magic when they were each at least as tall as the older kids and around three times as wide. Plus, Draco was not the only one with his wand out, now; the other Slytherins had their wands out as well and were looking rather predatory.

“I’m taking Fawcett,” announced Pansy, firing a hex at the Ravenclaw girl. The others seemed to take this as a signal and began to cast their own spells. Angered, Portchester and the others took out their own wands and fired back. However, the commotion caught the attention of the librarian, Madam Pince, and she swooped down on them like a mother bird protecting her chicks.

“How dare you use hexes in the library!” she hissed. “What if you damage the books? Take that fight outside or I’ll be taking points!”

She chivvied the combatants out of the aisles, sending them on their way with withering glares. Once she’d gone, Draco emerged from the bookshelf he’d hidden himself behind in order to avoid Madam Pince. He approached Hermione, who was still seated at her window. She'd been hidden from view by the taller, older students, but now he could see that she was sniffling quietly with her head down. Actually, she seemed to have been at it for awhile. Gingerly, Draco reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. “Hey, Granger, they’re gone,” he said softly.

She startled a little when he touched her, but at his words she looked up at him. Her eyes were red and teary; she swiped at them with the back of her hand without breaking eye contact. She looked confused and a little accusatory. Draco swallowed unconsciously and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Hermione replied after a long moment.

“You should go,” Draco told her. “I don’t think the others saw you, they were just spoiling for a fight. But if you’re still here when they come back, they’ll probably think you’re just as good a target as any.”

Hermione sighed. “I was done reading anyway,” she said. She stood up, dusted off her skirt, and shouldered her bag. “Thanks for the help, Malfoy.”

“Draco,” he reminded her. She gave him a tiny smile.

“Malfoy,” she repeated. Then she was walking away, and Draco was left at the window, watching her back and wondering what exactly he was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late post! Honestly I started this ages ago but time just passed by without notifying me. I'm going to try to make up for it since we have a holiday in two days... ha! I'm working from home, no thanks to COVID. I hope the little bit of fluff makes you feel better. I aim to add more fluff gradually.
> 
> My alpha for this chapter is Killer_Queen201. Beta work done by PeachPenguin91.


	5. Something Sweet, and Almost Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is he mean? Is he nice? Is a time-traveling car something that falls under Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration?

Two weeks later, Draco still didn’t know what he was doing, but he was definitely doing something. Part of it involved annexing prime library real estate.

One evening found Draco pushing away from the Slytherin table after dinner, his Transfiguration homework and a few scrolls tucked under one arm. Crabbe, noticing that he was done, scrambled to stuff a few extra muffins into his pockets, while Goyle crammed an entire pie slice into his mouth.

“Hey mate, where to?” Blaise Zabini asked him with mild curiosity.

“Library,” Draco replied. He paid no attention to Crabbe or Goyle, both of whom seemed to deflate at the word, but who dutifully left their dinners anyway. He was, however, forced to pay attention to Pansy, who had also gotten up and had attached herself to his arm.

“I’m coming with you,” she informed him. “I’ll do my homework too.” Draco did not comment on the fact that she did not have any of her books, or even a quill or parchment, with her; in the months since school had started, he had yet to see her do any sort of schoolwork. He rather suspected, given that she’d yet to get a detention for missing an assignment, that she paid some destitute half-blood to do her assignments for her. But that was none of Draco’s business, and so he kept silent.

The four of them made their way out of the Great Hall and up the stairs, eventually ending up at the library doors. As expected --- given that it happened every time he went to the library --- Crabbe and Goyle peeled off, as if magically repelled by the wooden portal; Pansy and Draco entered by themselves. The library was already quite full, so there were no empty tables. That wasn’t a problem for Draco. He went up to a table that had a pair of second-year Hufflepuffs and put his books down.

“You’re at my table,” he told them curtly.

The Hufflepuffs looked up at him, surprised. Most people would have asked to share the table, or perhaps told them to scooch over and leave some space; but not Draco. He stared down at them, one eyebrow arching upwards. “Well?” he demanded.

“W-we were here first,” one of the Hufflepuffs said bravely.

“Do I look like I care?” Draco sneered. “Move.”

The other Hufflepuff leaned towards the one that had spoken and whispered something to her, pointing at another table a little bit away, which was currently occupied by three Ravenclaws. She sighed and nodded; the two of them gathered up their things and headed to the other table. Draco and Pansy heard them asking for permission to sit.

Pansy laughed. “That was amazing,” she told Draco. “I was a little worried, you know, because you keep wanting to go to the library. All the riff-raff are here, Theo always studies in the common room, so why can’t you? But the way you just made them leave!”

“I just like the library, okay,” Draco said, sitting down and pulling his book towards him. “Now are you going to study with me or not?”

“I’ll study,” Pansy replied, sitting down next to him, and they settled down in silence. Half an hour and half a foot of parchment later, however, Draco looked up to find that Pansy had left. He smirked to himself; Pansy probably was disappointed that he hadn’t paid her any attention. Well, he was here to study, not canoodle with a girl who hadn’t even been able to turn her needle into a matchstick during the first week of Transfiguration class. He had heard that Granger had been able to do it on her first day. As far as he knew, four people had been able to manage such a feat in their year: Granger, himself, Theodore Nott, and Padma Patil. He had expected it, and frankly he wasn’t above rubbing it into Pansy’s face if she got too insistent on taking up his time and attention while he was supposed to be studying in the library. Maybe if she spent the time she claimed she was spending on her homework, actually _doing_ her homework, she’d be getting better scores --- but no, Pansy would rather blame it on _the Mudbloods stealing her magic_.

He spread out a piece of parchment, weighing one corner down with his book and the other with his ink-bottle and blotting-paper holder, and took out his favorite quill. He twirled the eagle feather a few times, thinking about what to write, before he opened his ink-bottle and dipped the tip of the quill in. “Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration states that it is possible to transfigure physical matter into other forms of physical matter, subject to the complexity of the objects being transfigured, the availability of alchemical reagents, and the ability of the caster. The five exceptions are…”

“Excuse me,” a soft voice interrupted his thoughts. “Would you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”

Draco looked up, frowning, and was met with the sight of Hermione Granger’s face peering hesitantly at him. He blinked and wordlessly moved a small distance down his bench, leaving some space for Granger to sit down and spread her things out if she so wished. She gave him a small smile and sat down. She pulled out her own Transfiguration homework, a bottle of ink, a quill, and a round purple canister of what Draco assumed was pounce. She immediately set to writing, evidently having finished her reading somewhere else, and Draco went back to his parchment.

He was halfway into his second paragraph (“Things that the caster has no concept of”) when he heard Granger giggle. It was neither loud nor high-pitched, unlike Pansy’s (a sound which Draco was much too familiar with), but it was unmistakably a giggle, and since Transfiguration was not a particularly funny subject there was only one possible reason for it: she was laughing at him. Draco snapped his head up, fully intending to glare Granger into submission, but before he could, she asked him, “Do you always talk to yourself when you do your homework?”

Draco did, and he didn’t particularly care for that facet of his life to be bandied around. Here in the library most people were too busy studying to pay attention to the affairs of other people, and more than a few murmured to themselves while they studied, just like he did; there was some comfort in anonymity. It was something he would be unable to enjoy in Slytherin, where he was more or less a celebrity. “Try not to sound so amazed,” he told Granger, keeping his face carefully neutral. It would never do for her to find out how unsettled he was by her observation.

She smiled brightly at him. “I do it too!” she informed him, like she hadn't freely and publicly revealed a personal weakness. “But also, are you sure about your last sentence? Because I think there are two corollaries to that exception.”

He glanced at his page, on which he had just written “The corollary to this exception is the need for menial labor, especially in the manufacturing sector.” He had dripped some ink on it when he'd gotten distracted by Granger, and the stray splash was beginning to bleed onto the surrounding parchment. He reached for his blotter and carefully dabbed at the ink to absorb the excess. “It looks right to me,” he said as he worked. “People who don’t know much about crafts and things like that cannot just transfigure other things into clothes, or whatever it is they need, because one needs to have a very good understanding of the concept and structure of both the thing you wish to transfigure and the thing you wish to transfigure it to. So a proper seamstress would be able to transfigure good clothes, because she knows the structure of clothes well, but you or me, we’d probably make something horribly scratchy or it would fall apart.”

“Oh I don’t doubt that,” Granger said. “But what of Muggle things, Muggle technology? Or things that Muggles imagined. Like time machines or cars or telephones?”

“What exactly is a telly-thing?”

“A telephone? It’s a device that helps people talk to each other over long distances. It changes the sound waves of a person’s voice to electricity, and carries it through wires to another telephone, which changes the electricity back to sound waves so that the other person can hear it,” Granger explained, sounding rather like a book. Draco looked at her in consternation. Wasn’t she talking about some Muggle thing? He had no idea what sound waves or electricity were, but all that changing something into this or that sounded pretty much like magic to him. Did Muggles have some sort of magic after all? He struggled to pay attention to Granger, who had hardly paused for breath as she continued. “Well, you obviously don’t know anything about telephones, so you wouldn’t be able to transfigure them. But I’m a Muggle-born, so I do have a concept of such things. Does that mean that I could transfigure a telephone? Or even make my own Delorean?”

The idea seemed to have caught Granger, and her eyes sparkled as she looked at Draco. He still could understand only about half of what she said. However, he mulled it over and decided that she must have been talking about more Muggle things. “I suppose, theoretically,” he admitted, “though I doubt that Ulick Gamp actually thought about that in 1705, when he published this law.”

Granger nodded fervently, apparently in agreement. “Yes, that makes sense, since there was no Statute of Secrecy back then there would be no real differentiation between Muggle things and magic things, so he ---”

Draco stared at her like she’d grown two heads. “No differentiation between Muggle things and magic things? Of course there was, some of them were magic!”

Granger scoffed. “Oh please. Until Guillaume Edelin and his sisters Baptistine and Sidonie made besoms into the first flying brooms as we know them today, in 1449, there was no difference between a Muggle broom and a magical one. All of them were used to sweep! And even after that many magic families still used the same broom to clean as to fly, it was how they made sure Muggles couldn’t figure out what tool they used for magic!”

Draco, who knew perfectly well that Guillaume Edelin was the first recorded wizard to have made a flying broom, felt a little insulted that a Muggleborn would presume to lecture him about wizarding history. “Well of course I know that!” He exclaimed. “But what would you know of it? You’re a Muggleborn!”

“Excuse me, what has that got to do with it?” Granger replied frostily. “It was in _Great Thinkers and Inventors of the Past Millennium_ by Everard Whitehorn, which I read over the summer. I don’t get why everyone seems to think Muggleborns can’t know anything about wizarding history, when there’s literally hundreds of books available and we can read perfectly well. I bet I’ve read more books than you have, even.”

“Yeah well I - I ---” Draco tried to think of a snappy comeback, “well anyway there’s only one corollary to the first exception to Gamp’s Law! So there!”

Granger did not look impressed by the change of topic, but she took the bait anyway. “Fine, what did you have for the other exceptions, then? I’ve got food, of course, and things with differing states of consciousness, and things that have been previously modified with magic or which possess magic of their own, and precious metals and gemstones.”

Draco nodded, appeased that Granger seemed to be going along with him rather than arguing again. “My list is more or less the same as yours. Theo says that love, life, and information are exceptions, but I disagree, I think they were never part of the law in the first place, because they’re not physical…”

Two hours later, Madam Pince arrived to inform them that the library would be closing soon and they had only half an hour left to curfew. Draco pulled away from the conversation he’d been having with Granger, about The Law of Equivalent Exchange and how it played into Gamp’s Law, and realized that he’d somehow written about two feet more of his Transfiguration homework than had originally been set. He looked at Granger hurriedly throwing pounce onto her parchment to dry her own work --- she’d managed at least three feet, though he couldn’t read what she wrote --- shaking the extra sand back into her canister, and rolling up her scroll. He smiled a little at her. “Well, it’s been an interesting evening,” he said, and she smiled back.

They parted ways soon after, but Draco was already making plans to annex a table at the library again, just in case.

* * *

Hermione was confused.

It had been a week and a half since she’d done her Transfiguration homework with Draco in the library, and she’d sat with him a second time just the day before. They’d had a stimulating discussion about the use of Lethe River water in the Forgetfulness Potion, and Hermione had felt like she’d made more progress even than when she’d tried sitting with some of the Ravenclaws in her year. She’d actually tried to sit with him even earlier, but he’d been with some of his housemates and they hadn’t been very nice to her, so she’d left before she even managed to take a seat. She wanted to talk with Draco some more, but she couldn’t do it with anyone else around, especially Slytherins. He didn’t actually say anything bad to her, but he didn’t stop his housemates from being mean either, and Hermione didn’t like that. She’d seen him joining in the bullying several times, when it wasn’t her --- he particularly enjoyed poking fun at Neville, Harry, and Ron, it seemed --- and she didn’t like that either. But when other people bullied her, like Portchester had in the library, Draco and his group would somehow materialize and bully the ones bullying her, and she couldn’t say she disliked that.

Just that morning, at Potions, she and Neville had been trying to make a Herbicide Potion. They’d made it past Part 1, and had just come out of the 51-minute brew period required. Hermione had already measured one tablespoon of Horklump juice into the cauldron and was measuring out the second when Neville, popping out the cork of the bottle of Flobberworm mucus with a little too much force, accidentally bumped into her. She spilled the second tablespoon, and then some, into the potion. “Oh no,” she and Neville both said, she in dismay and Neville with a slight edge of panic. Neville really didn’t do so well in Potions class; he didn’t do well in any of the classes except Herbology, to be honest, but Potions was easily his worst because he was terrified of Snape. Knowing this, Hermione decided that she would need to solve their problem.

“Here,” she told Neville, thrusting the ladle into his hands while she turned up the heat on the cauldron slightly, raising it from a low simmer to a medium temperature. “Ten seconds, then put in the Flobberworm mucus, two blobs. I’ll just find a way to reduce the effect of the additional Horklump juice…”

She had already pulled out Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and flipped to the section on Horklumps. Her eyes flashed across the page as she frantically skimmed for something, anything, that they could try to add to the brew, before Snape…

“What, may I ask, is that supposed to be?”

Too late.

Professor Snape had arrived at their work station, and unfortunately, Neville promptly reacted by reducing himself to a quivering, human-shaped jelly. Hermione snatched the ladle back from him and reached for the Flobberworm mucus.

“Miss Granger, surely you’re not planning to add Flobberworm mucus at this point, with the color of your brew like that? I remember quite clearly stating that your potion should be emerald green before the mucus is added, and this is most certainly jade rather than emerald. You’ve gone and put too much Horklump juice, haven’t you?”

“I - it was an accident, Professor,” Hermione said.

“And what were you planning to do? Melt your cauldron I suppose?”

“I was going to try to - to add ---”

“Idiot girl,” Snape sneered, “you mustn’t add, you must reduce! You have to boil the excess Horklump juice away, until the potion reaches the desired color!”

Hermione nodded meekly. She hadn’t found the answer fast enough and she hadn’t thought to check the possible fixes in case of Potions accidents. Next time she’d do some extra reading. She eyed the potion, which had gone on rather longer than ten seconds but was still not light enough to be emerald green. Unwillingly, she sniffled a little, a few tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Oh what is it now, you’ll spoil the potion further!” Snape exclaimed, throwing up his hands in disgust at her tears. Hermione tried to hide it by looking at Neville, but Neville was also crying silently, and this seemed to infuriate their teacher. He frowned at them and growled, “Incompetent, overly-sensitive, silly children ---”

“Potter, what is that?”

Draco’s voice rang out across the Potions classroom, each syllable somehow managing to be full of derision. He laughed as he pointed at Harry’s and Ron’s cauldron. “We’re making Herbicide, Potter, a potion for spraying plants, not some sort of pudding ---”

On hearing that, Snape flounced away from Hermione and Neville, heading straight towards Harry and Ron. Away from the verbal abuse and intimidating presence of their instructor, Hermione and Neville calmed down. After hastily swiping away her tears, Hermione checked the color of their potion again. “It’s the correct color now,” she said to Neville, who sniffled, nodded, and added in the two blobs of Flobberworm mucus. Together, they stirred it four times counterclockwise, and then Hermione did the required wand-work to complete the potion while Neville prepared the decanting bottles.

“I feel sorry for Harry and Ron, but it was lucky for us,” Neville admitted to Hermione in an undertone, as she ladled some of their completed Herbicide Potion into the bottle he was holding out. “I can’t tell different greens apart, honestly. Doesn’t help that I’m terrified of Professor Snape either. I can’t work when he’s right here.”

“I’m scared of him too, a little,” Hermione whispered. She didn’t tell him that she felt relieved, and a little grateful, that Draco had chosen to comment on Harry’s potion just at that time, because it got Snape off their case. She really didn’t need the extra pressure, and it had stung to be called an idiot. She handed a cork to Neville, who stoppered the bottle of potion while she surreptitiously wiped her tears away.

Across the classroom, Draco watched them whisper to each other, a tiny crease forming across his forehead.

* * *

Draco had just come out of Charms when he saw a bushy head of brown hair rushing across the end of the hall. He turned to Goyle, who had emerged behind him, and said, “You and Crabbe go ahead, I’m heading to the loo.”

He left before Goyle had replied, assuming that the boy would eventually figure it out and pass the message on. He’d see them later; but for now he was going to see where Granger was off to in such a hurry. He walked to the end of the hall and turned right, but instead of continuing towards the male toilets he stopped to think about where she could have gone. After a few minutes, however, she emerged from the female toilets (of course). Her eyes were red and puffy, though she’d obviously tried to hide the traces of tears by washing her face.

“This is the second time today I’ve seen you crying,” he said in a low voice, as soon as he’d approached her close enough to speak without being overheard. Hermione looked up at him, her lips turned down; she was not in a good mood. “Frankly, Granger, you look ugly when you cry. You really shouldn’t do it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just making an observation.” He moved back a little to be able to get a better view of her. When they’d first met in Diagon Alley she’d been taller than he was, and she was still a little taller now, especially with her hair frizzing outward like a lion’s mane. But she was holding herself tucked into her body, like she was trying to be small and unnoticeable, and Draco found that he didn’t like that. He liked it better when she was fierce and energetic, her eyes sparking with life, the way she was when they were arguing about this and that in the library.

“Well it doesn’t, not really,” Granger said, sounding curt. But a moment later, she added, “Ronald’s mean.”

“Who, Weasley?”

She nodded. “I was only trying to help. He and Seamus always get things wrong. Neville listens to me, and Seamus too, but Ronald gets angry. He calls me a know-it-all.”

“Well you do,” Draco said, and there was a world of difference between _you do_ and _you are_. He knew it, and he hoped that Granger knew it too.

To his horror, Granger’s eyes started to leak again.

“I was trying to make you feel better!” he said, exasperated. He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “There, use that. And stop crying. You’re not a child.”

“It’s not you,” Granger got out, after she’d used the hanky to blow her nose. She seemed to realize what she’d done and smiled weakly at Draco, a little embarrassed. “I’ll wash it before I return it to you,” she said.

“Er, no, you keep it,” Draco said, trying hard not to look grossed out by the thought of Granger-snot on his nice monogrammed linen.

“Thank you, it’s nice of you,” Granger said, but that brought her thoughts back to her troubles. “Why can’t Ronald be more like you? You’re a pureblood just like he is, and you’re not even in my house, but you’re being nice to me.” She sighed and seemed to deflate some more. “My own housemates aren’t very nice to me. They call me a nerd, and a know-it-all, and a bookworm. I thought I was done with all that when I left Muggle school. And Ronald says, Ronald says nobody likes me and nobody wants to be my friend.”

“Weasley doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Draco asserted.

“Ronald has lots of friends, though,” Hermione told him miserably. “He gets along with everyone, because he’s a Weasley and everyone likes the Weasleys, you know? And he’s Harry’s best friend too. Everybody loves Harry.”

“You don’t say? Saint Potter, youngest Seeker in a century. Breaks the rules and gets a _Nimbus Two Thousand_ for his troubles.”

She laughed a little, a watery sound, but nevertheless a laugh. “I don’t know how he didn’t get expelled for that. McGonagall didn’t see you, but she saw Harry, and he’d broken the rules, but he still actually got a reward for it.”

Maybe it was just Draco pushing his own emotions onto her, but he thought she sounded a little envious, a little bitter. He gave a little shrug of forced nonchalance, in an effort to hide how much it rankled. “Yes, well, the world revolves around Harry Potter. It’s favoritism is what it is.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Bloody unfair, I agree. My father heard about that, I can assure you. He put in a complaint with the School Board of Governors. But well, they said, it’s only Quidditch ---”

He grimaced, because how could someone dare say it was _only Quidditch_? Hermione pounced on his expression immediately. “I know, right?” she exclaimed. “How can someone say it’s _only Quidditch_. A dangerous game like that! And letting an _eleven-year-old_ play! I don’t know if they’re biased towards Harry or they just want to get him killed!”

Draco looked at her aghast --- how wrong could she be about the best sport in the world? --- then he laughed. “I don’t understand if you’re angry at Potter or trying to save his arse,” he told her.

Granger blinked at him. “Can’t I be both?” she asked. “I don’t think he’s a very nice person, and I don’t think it’s fair how people are always pandering to him, but it’s not like I want him to die.”

Draco smiled at her. “You say that like it’s so simple.”

But Hermione wondered as she looked at Draco’s smile whether maybe things weren’t quite as simple as she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals a little bit with Transfiguration. Canonically, the only thing we know about Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration is that it has five exceptions, one of which is food. There are many theories about what the other four may be (some interesting discussion may be seen here: Beyond Hogwarts HP Lexicon Scifi Stack Exchange) But what the law is in itself is hardly touched upon. I figured, given that Transfiguration is meant to be more “scientific” than other forms of magic, specifically Charms (see the wiki), I should strive to make the form of its law more “scientific”. Hermione and Draco seemed quite interested, and actually I have quite a few details of that written down, but I don’t think others would be very interested in a treatise about Transfiguration. :-)
> 
> Hogwarts is Here is quite interesting and features some explanations about transfiguration, including the Transfiguration Alphabet (one of the first lessons in Transfiguration, according to _Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery_ ) and the Transfiguration Formula, but I didn’t really touch on them. Anyway I doubt that McGonagall would have taught the Formula to ickle firsties. It seems more of an OWL class sort of thing.
> 
> There is no mention of blotting paper or pounce pouches in canon, but when one writes with ink using a quill or a nib pen such as a fountain pen, it’s better to use something to dry the ink; and since there are canonical mentions of Harry waiting for his essays to dry, it’s reasonable to infer that they don’t normally use magic to dry their ink. However, it seems that blotting paper is considered to be more “high end” than pounce, so I figured Draco would have a fancy blotter. Check out the wikis (here and here) for added details.
> 
> Read more about besoms and brooms --- and Guillaume Edelin --- here, here, as well as here. Baptistine and Sidonie are not historical figures, but as the first known drawings of broomstick flight are of two women, I figured they deserved to have names, and it was easiest to make them related to Guillaume.
> 
> Alpha work done by PeachPenguin91. My beta was Killer_Queen201. Thank you!


	6. Samhain Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween doesn't turn out so well, and dynamics begin to shift.

“Neville,” Hermione began, her eyes closed and her hair frizzed out behind her as she lay back against the bole of the aspen beside Greenhouse 1, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ splayed page-down on her lap, “are you ever going to finish replanting those Fanged Geraniums?”

Neville, who had rolled up his sleeves and was busily digging garden rows for the geranium seedlings that were currently in the nursery inside the greenhouse, made a small, non-committal noise. “Well if you’d like to help me ---” he said, then laughed as Hermione’s eyes shot open and she suddenly shoved her nose in her book, far too obviously pretending to be busy. “On second thought, never mind that. Professor Sprout gave me this errand,” he explained with a bit of pride as he emphasized the personal pronoun. “She said I have a light touch with the seedlings and they would grow better if I were the one who replanted them. She’ll give me points for it too.”

Hermione nodded, which Neville took as encouragement even though she was still resolutely keeping her eyes in her book. He began to regale her with the differences between the common geranium and the Fanged Geranium. Hermione actually did listen for maybe two minutes. However, she started zoning out as he was explaining that the Fanged Geranium was actually not a geranium at all, but a unique cultivar of pelargonium. How he managed to remember such random bits of trivia was beyond her. Hermione was doing well enough in Herbology; she was probably in the top five of her class, but Neville was unquestionably the best in it. Actually, Herbology was pretty much the only class that Neville regularly got points in; it was the only class that didn’t have a scary teacher, a scary subject matter, or scary classmates to distract him. It was plain to see that he enjoyed working in the easy silence and dewy cool of magical plantlife; she couldn’t begrudge him the time nor the points, not when she was pretty much the same about most other subjects. 

“Are you excited about Halloween?” Hermione asked when Neville paused for breath. She'd read the same sentence over and over as she was trying to avoid getting pulled into Neville's task, and she honestly did not care at the moment about how often Tibet and Scotland contravened the 73rd clause of the International Statute of Secrecy. But as bored as she was with the introduction of her book, she still did not want to have to listen to another drawn-out lecture on leaf shapes. Neville might be able to talk about Herbology for hours on end, but it wasn’t something that interested her so much that she’d do extra “practical application” outside of class hours, or even just chat about for a quarter of an hour. After all, even Muggles had gardening. It wasn’t exactly something new to Hermione.

“Actually yeah,” Neville replied. “I’ve never celebrated Halloween before. Gran’s a bit of a traditionalist, we’ve always celebrated Samhain.”

Hermione tilted her head to observe Neville carefully, giving up completely on her pretense of reading. Her book shut as Neville's comment opened her mind to a new idea. This was something she hadn’t considered before, or even read about. “Are they very different? Samhain and Halloween.”

Halloween was a familiar holiday to Hermione, whose parents were Christian. When she had been younger, her parents would take her to mass in the early morning of October 31, and in the afternoon her father would take her trick-or-treating while her mother stayed at home, giving out sugar-free candies to costumed children. They’d be back in the house before sundown, which was when the teenagers would come out, more concerned with tricks than treats. The family would have a lovely dinner, a feast in honor of all the saints, and then they’d leave out small offerings and pray for the souls of their dearly departed. As for the other --- she knew the word Samhain, but it wasn’t like she’d ever been interested in reading about it; there had been more practical, interesting aspects of magic to read about, than ancient rites involving naked people. She thought of Neville and his grandmother dancing naked under the moon, and wrinkled her nose at the image.

Neville caught her expression and frowned very slightly, confused and curious but too polite to ask about it. Hermione waved a hand negligently as she shrugged, the unspoken form of “it’s nothing”, and Neville, easily accepting, began to explain his traditions. “We usually celebrate Samhain from sundown on October 31 to sundown on November 1, just Gran and I at first. At sundown we would walk a circle widdershins around the property ---”

“Like a ward?” Hermione wanted to know.

“I suppose, yeah,” Neville replied, looking thoughtful. “I just kinda do what Gran says, you know… but that makes sense. She makes me reflect on the cycle of birth and death, and afterwards we gather nuts and berries, and dried leaves and acorns and stuff, and we bring them to the center of the property, to the Samhain altar. The elves set it up with cornucopias and cider, and rye bread, beforehand… Gran makes a speech, then we set up the Green Lady and give her an offering, the choicest parts of the meal. Then we eat.”

“That’s it?” Hermione asked, both disappointed and relieved.

“Uh… yeah?”

“No… naked dancing, and jumping over a bonfire and stuff?”

Neville looked gobsmacked for a moment, and then he laughed. “Is that what you thought we’d do? I mean, maybe Gran did that when she was younger, I dunno, but she’s like, ancient now, Hermione, eww.”

He was blushing, and Hermione realized that she’d made him uncomfortable, even though she hadn’t meant to and he was trying to play it off. She decided to take the heat off Neville by making a noble sacrifice. “I think Hogwarts Halloween’s going to be more of a harvest feast, probably. Have you seen Hagrid’s giant pumpkins? I wonder what he’s using as fertilizer?”

As expected, the plant-related question distracted and soothed Neville, and he was soon back at his task of replanting the Fanged Geraniums, every now and then piping up with a suggestion as to what might possibly be the reason Hagrid was growing such big pumpkins. Hermione sighed and smiled fondly at her friend, resigned to listening to more plant talk.

* * *

A few days later, Hermione woke up to the delicious smell of warm pumpkin and cinnamon, and her lips tugged up in a smile as she realized that it was finally Halloween. It would be the first Wizarding holiday she would celebrate, and she was sure she and Neville would have a blast at the feast that evening. Of course, first they had to get through classes. The Gryffindors had Charms first thing on Thursdays, followed by a dreary History of Magic class (Hermione was interested in the history of the wizarding world, really, but Professor Binns was so boring), Transfiguration in the afternoon, and Flying class (which Hermione was doing slightly better at: she could now reliably mount a broom, and move slowly forward in a straight line, but she still didn’t like it). But then... _then_ it would be the feast! She’d seen Hagrid carving up some of his giant pumpkins the day before and she was sure the celebration would be absolutely amazing. Plus she loved pumpkin - pumpkin pie, pumpkin soup, pumpkin juice… Humming merrily to herself, Hermione set about getting ready for what, she was sure, would be a wonderful day.

She arrived in Charms class four minutes early and slid into her usual seat on the first row, beside Alice Runcorn, who wore thick glasses. Alice nodded at her when she arrived but paid her no mind; she was busy gossiping with her best friend Fay Dunbar, who sat the next table over. Neville was already in his own seat just behind Hermione’s, and she happily turned around to greet him as soon as she had laid out her book, parchment, quill, inks, pounce canister, and homework journal. “Happy Halloween!” she said cheerfully, and Neville smiled back at her. They chatted excitedly for a few minutes until Professor Flitwick arrived, and Hermione faced the front again. Charms was a fun class.

“Good morning, everyone!” Professor Flitwick said, as soon as he finished calling roll. “Today we are going to learn how to make things fly.” He smiled, holding up a hand for silence when the class burst into an excited murmuring. Hermione grinned; this was a proper witchy thing to be doing, the perfect lesson for Halloween. “Yes, I know you’re all very excited --- yes, Mr Finnegan, in a moment --- but first, take out your books. Turn them to page 98, and read up on the variations of the Levitation Charm.”

Hermione quickly turned to the said page. She’d already read it, actually (she’d read all of her books before the school year began, and habitually reviewed the next chapter the weekend before it was due), but there was no harm in reading it again. Her wand-hand moved in tiny swishes and flicks as she read the incantations for the Levitation Charm. There was a note on the book that detailed variations of the said charm (Hover Charm, page 99, and the Levitation Spell, page 101) and she browsed those pages as well, committing to memory the small differences between the three. She even made a note on her journal to search for the theory behind the spells, in case doing so would help her cast the spells more efficiently. She was sure that Professor Aelfwynd, who taught their optional weekly Basic Magical Theory class, would be able to give her some interesting tips. In fact, maybe Draco ---

“Time’s up,” Professor Flitwick said, his high voice interrupting her train of thought. “Put away your books now… We’re going to do some practice, so I want you to form pairs --- I’ll be assigning them in a moment. Once you’ve got your partners I want you to help each other with the Charm. Try to correct your partner’s mistakes if you can… Alright?” He clapped his hands to ensure that he had the attention of the class. “Listen now…”

That was how Hermione found herself paired with Ronald Weasley, much to her annoyance. Sha hadn’t talked to either Ronald or Harry for weeks; she had tried to talk to them after the trouble with the duel-that-did-not-happen, and again when Harry’s precious broomstick arrived, but they had snubbed her and she had not bothered to try again. She wished she could be partnered with Neville, or with Fay Dunbar who seemed kind of smart, or even with Seamus Finnegan, who was funny even if he had a tendency to make things blow up. She would’ve even preferred Harry over Ronald. Harry, at least, seemed happy enough to let her be if she didn’t approach him. Ronald, however, still said mean things about her when she would raise her hand in class, even if she didn’t talk to him.

And it looked like Ronald wasn’t too pleased with her either.

Professor Flitwick had motioned him out of the table he had been sharing with Harry, and towards her table. Alice had been sent to the back and partnered with Dean Thomas; Harry had been partnered with Seamus; Neville had been partnered with Parvati; and Fay had been partnered with Lavender. Ronald complied with bad grace; Hermione grudgingly moved her things to the side so that Ron would have a little extra space. She didn’t complain and she would make the best of it; this was supposed to be a good day.

If Professor Flitwick noticed that neither Hermione nor Ronald looked particularly enthused about their assignment, he didn’t seem to care. He was perched, as usual, on his little tower of ivory leather-bound tomes, and looked down on his students with good cheer. “Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practicing!” he squeaked, after he had levitated a single large feather onto each table. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too -- never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."

He looked at his students expectantly, and when they didn’t immediately begin, he flapped his hands at them. “Go on,” he said. With a sigh, most of the students complied.

“You can go first, if you like,” Hermione offered Ronald in a low voice, determined to keep things as peaceful as possible. He didn’t reply to her, but he did take out his wand, cough, and make an attempt to levitate their feather.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” he said, swishing and flicking, but to no effect. He tried again, louder, making his motions more exaggerated. “Wingardium Leviosa!”

Still nothing. “Wingardium Leviosa!” Ronald said again, throwing up his arms and jabbing the air like an angry conductor waving his baton. The back of one hand hit Hermione’s inkwell and it tipped over her parchment, coloring it bright blue. “Hey!” she exclaimed, glaring at Ronald. But she was waiting for an apology that would never come; Ronald hadn’t even noticed he’d spilled her ink. He was now waving his long arms like a windmill as he shouted, “Wingardium Leviosa!”

“You’re saying it wrong!” Hermione finally snapped, fighting the urge to grab Ronald’s wand away from him. Someone so inept with a wand had no business brandishing one about! It was such a simple spell, too. She decided to correct his most glaring error; after all, Professor Flitwick had said they should help their partners. “It’s Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi- _o_ -sa, not _Wing_ -gar-dium Levi-o- _sa_. Make the _gar_ nice and long.”

But Ronald took offense at this. He glared venomously at her and snarled, “You do it. then, if you’re so clever!”

Hermione huffed. Ungrateful git! she thought, rolling up her sleeves to get them out of the way. She gently pointed her wand at the feather, using her wrists to make the tiniest swish and flick as she said, enunciating carefully, “Wingardium Leviosa.”

As she expected, their feather rose into the air, hovering around four feet above their heads. She looked at Ronald, not saying anything else; she’d made her point with the feather. Ronald was fuming, and got even angrier when Professor Flitwick noticed them and started to applaud. “Oh, well done! Everyone see here, Miss Granger’s done it!”

Hermione smiled, proud of her success. Professor Flitwick gave her another, larger feather, and she levitated that one too. “Very good, Miss Granger! Take two points for Gryffindor,” the teacher told her, “and you may go around the class to help your classmates. Mr Weasley, I’m afraid you need to practice a little harder. Why don’t I sit with you awhile and we’ll see where you’re having trouble?”

The rest of Charms class passed quickly. It wasn’t such a bad lesson, really. Hermione helped Neville, who was pronouncing the spell correctly but was flicking too much and not swishing enough, and Seamus, whose pronounced Irish lilt was affecting the spell. Parvati was doing well enough, as was Harry --- neither of them had quite gotten the charm right yet, but Hermione could see that they would, soon, with a bit more focus perhaps. Fay was helping Lavender, and Alice and Dean were frowning in concentration as they moved in tandem; Hermione could see no real issues with either pair. Really, the most problematic was Ronald, and that was probably because he was letting his emotions cloud his magic; she’d have to check it in Magical Theory, but anyone could see he was making more and more mistakes the more he let his temper get away from him.

A few minutes before the bell would ring to signal the end of the class, Hermione ended up back at her table. Ronald still hadn’t succeeded in levitating the feather, though to his credit he at least hadn’t made the feather explode, like Seamus had (were there adjustments that people had to make for accents and dialects, Hermione wondered? More questions for Magical Theory class --- she hoped Professor Aelfwynd wouldn’t mind). She silently watched him struggle for a moment, before quietly reminding him, “Wing- _gar_ -dium Levi- _o_ -sa.”

It was the wrong thing to do. Ronald’s neck began to grow red, the color rising steadily until it had reached his scalp; his ears were so bright she could almost see steam coming out of them. He didn’t say anything to her, but he slammed both hands on the table before storming off. She saw Harry murmur something, and both boys headed out of the room as soon as the bell rang. They were moving so quickly that even though her table was closer to the door, they reached the door before she did, cutting in front of her and pushing their way into the crowded corridor outside. “It’s no wonder no-one can stand her,” Ron was telling Harry as they stepped past her, not even bothering to lower his voice so as to avoid being overheard, “she’s a nightmare, honestly.”

Hermione’s day fell down around her ears. She felt tears sting her eyes, and she ran past her classmates with her head down, trying to hide them. She wasn’t sad anymore, not like she’d been the first few times Ronald’s hurtful words had made her cry. But she’d been so happy that morning and she’d so been looking forward to her day. How dare Ronald ruin it for her? She hated him! She really did!

She ran down the Charms hallway, looking for the nearest passages that had the least number of people. Eventually she found herself in the girls’ toilet on the first floor. She ducked into a cubicle, locked herself in, and gave in to her tears.

* * *

The Hogwarts Halloween Feast was… not what Draco had expected.

He thought about it silently as he ate his dinner, not paying much attention to the excited chattering of his housemates. What, exactly, was wrong with the school celebration? Well, first of all, the decorations. Who had thought of using thousands of live bats as ceiling decorations? They fluttered and shrieked and crapped and even though there was a charm over the House tables, preventing the guano from hitting the food, it was still pretty gross to be looking up and then see this squirt of --- just, _splat_ onto the unseen barrier of the charm, and disappear. The giant pumpkins weren’t so bad, but the dancing skeletons just seemed uninspired, and frankly, everything felt a little improper.

The Malfoys had never celebrated Halloween. They’d always gone for a traditional Samhain, with Lucius dressing up as the Winter King, and he would go around the homes of the human servants living on Malfoy property to accept their tribute of magical power in exchange for a small, formal amount of largesse, and to the dens of the house elves in order to strengthen their bonds with the family magic. Someday when he became Lord of the Manor, the responsibility of being the Winter King would pass onto his shoulders, but for now Draco was pleased to watch from the sidelines.

He’d expected some sort of Samhain celebration; he had wondered if Dumbledore would play the Winter King, or perhaps Professor McGonagall or Professor Sprout might be the Green Lady. There was certainly food and it contained a lot of the traditional things --- sage and fennel and bergamot, ripe seasonal fruits and vegetables, cider by the keg. But the rest of it was just so far from what he expected that he thought they looked almost… Muggle.

Thinking of Muggles reminded him of Hermione, and he looked around, craning his neck for a glimpse of her wild chestnut curls. He spotted the other Gryffindor girls from their year, and Longbottom too, but no Hermione. Why wasn’t she around? Had she gotten into trouble? Could she be off crying in one of the toilets? Merlin, he hoped not, but she did have a history of it. He wondered if he ought to go look for her, but how could he leave without attracting too much attention?

Draco had just pocketed a couple of toffee apples (they were individually wrapped in thin, golden foil, and weren’t likely to make a mess), thinking he’d make some excuse about going to the loo and go check up on Hermione, when the doors of the Great Hall burst open. Professor Quirrell, their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, ran in, all in a dither. “T-t-troll!” he yelled. He reached the head table where all the other teachers were, gasped in a quickly falling voice, “Troll --- in the d-d-dungeon --- thought you ought to know,” and then fainted.

Draco hadn’t heard those last words, however: like about half of the students in the Great Hall, he’d heard “troll” and started screaming. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of the Headmaster’s wand to bring silence.

“Prefects,” he said in a far more authoritative voice than his usual merry twinkle, “lead your Houses back to their dormitories immediately.”

The Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Prefects were quickly rounding up their charges. Draco looked around for their Prefects. Then he heard Daphne say in a loud, quavering voice, “But the Slytherin dorms are in the dungeon.”

The realization seemed to sweep throughout all of Slytherin house, and the Snakes began to shift and murmur fearfully. A nearby Hufflepuff overheard and started to cry; she ran to her Head of House and said something. Professor Sprout nodded firmly and addressed her students. “Hufflepuffs need not go to their dormitories, the Greenhouses are open to you. You may stay in Greenhouses 1 until 3. Seventh-year Prefects, activate the emergency warding; you know where it is.”

She looked around --- just like the Slytherins were looking around --- and spotted Professor Snape, the Slytherin Head of House. Severus looked like he had thought of something very unpleasant and was about to go do something about it. Draco watched as Professor Sprout bore down like a steamboat towards Severus, clearly intent on telling him how to treat his students; she had barely said a word when Severus gave a curt nod and beckoned one of the Slytherin Prefects towards him. A quick word to the Prefect, a look that plainly said “Happy now?” to Professor Sprout, and he was gone. Professor Sprout, looking mildly displeased and a little worried, stayed around until she heard the Slytherin Prefect announce that the Slytherins would be going to the Library and staying there until the danger had passed. She then followed her students out of the Great Hall.

As the Slytherins, too, finally left, Draco looked around. He could not see any of the Gryffindors any more. He hoped that wherever Hermione had been, wherever she was right now, she knew about the troll, and that she was safe.

* * *

November 1 dawned, suddenly frosty, as if the Green Lady had truly gone to sleep and the Winter King taken up her mantle. There were rumors flying all around the castle: people were saying that Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley had knocked out the troll, rescuing Hermione Granger. The stories ranged from the simple to the fanciful. Some people said Potter and Weasley had found Hermione wandering the halls, and pulled her to safety as the troll lumbered after them; others said that Hermione had challenged the troll, and Potter had rescued her by punching the troll until it fainted, while Weasley ran to fetch the teachers as reinforcements. None of them seemed quite believable.

Draco found Hermione in the library after lunch, apparently getting the weekend homework out of the way during the first years’ free period. He took a seat beside her and placed a toffee apple on the desk near her things. She looked at the apple, then up at him, and gave him a small smile.

“Didn’t see you at the Halloween Feast yesterday evening,” he said with false nonchalance. “It was pretty interesting.”

Hermione snorted. “Sure, if troll attacks are interesting,” she said.

“I bet you could tell me if they are,” he said.

She didn’t speak for awhile as she looked at him, like she was weighing how much she should tell him; it was an expression that any Slytherin would be familiar with, but Draco had never seen it on Hermione before. In the months he'd known her, she'd always been so open and easy to read. Finally she said, “It was terrifying, honestly.”

“I can imagine. You, trapped with a troll, and only Potter and Weasley for company.”

She crossed her arms and frowned at him. “Harry and Ron rescued me, thank you,” she said curtly.

He laughed. “No, really,” he said. “I heard the stories, but obviously they can’t be right.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve heard is very wrong, but they really did rescue me,” Hermione insisted. Draco didn’t know quite how to react to her earnestness. She seemed to be genuinely defending Potter and Weasley, but she’d never really liked either of them before, and --- had she actually called Weasley Ron, rather than Ronald? Like, well, like a friend?

He settled on pushing the toffee apple towards her. “Maybe you can tell me the real story? I’ll know what to believe, then,” he said.

Hermione was still a little stiff-shouldered, but she accepted the toffee apple. Looking around to see if Madam Pince was anywhere near (she wasn’t), she carefully peeled the foil away and took a careful bite of the sweetened fruit. “You know, I’ve never had a toffee apple before,” she said. “My parents don’t like me eating sweets. It destroys the teeth.” She chewed carefully, swallowed the small bite she’d taken, and told him, “It’s nice. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Draco said. “So… the story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this chapter, I realized that the fic is getting waaay longer than I had originally intended it to be. I've mapped out the next few chapters --- the rest of first year --- but starting second year I'll be working in large timeskips as the daily interaction between Draco and Hermione gets less frequent. I plan on ending this particular fic without things going grimdark, but considering that they're very young, if any of you are here looking for smut: let me just say that there won't be smut. At least not yet.
> 
> I wanted to give Neville some screen time. For all that Nev’s supposed to be Hermione’s best friend (her only friend so far), he hasn’t said much, and I think he deserves some love.
> 
> Geraniums and Pelargoniums are, apparently, similar-looking plants, but not the same; it was Linnaeus’s fault they got called the same common name. (https://www.almanac.com/plant/geraniums and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pelargonium#F._Scented-leaved_pelargoniums)
> 
> I’m following this discussion on the most likely time on the attack on the Longbottoms, simply because it makes more sense (https://www.hp-lexicon.org/2018/03/18/frank-alice-longbottom-attacked/)
> 
> October 31, 1991, was a Thursday. I meant to follow the movie timetable for firsties in the 91-92 school year (given here: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/1991%E2%80%931992_school_year) but it says that Charms is a Friday class, which does not follow canon (since Charms class was the same day as the Halloween feast, which was canonically Oct 31). So I made up my own schedule, basing it on the book list of freshmen and also the number of hours of school a day (https://scifi.stackexchange.com/questions/157251/how-long-is-a-lesson-at-hogwarts). I got help from HP Lexicon (https://www.hp-lexicon.org/thing/hogwarts-classes/). Classes seem to last 45 minutes each, and I reckon there would be a buffer time in between each class, to let students move from one classroom to another. The Lexicon says there are only 2 classes every morning before lunch, but that gives a huge swath of free time, honestly, and where are the double periods going to fit? So I reckon there are actually 3 periods before lunch but usually only 2 classes, one of which is a double period.
> 
> Jade Aelfwynd is a recurring original OC. Will he be important? Not really, but you’ll see him again.
> 
> My alphabet for this chapter is PeachPenguin91! Thank you! <3


	7. A Green and Silver Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius and Narcissa learn about Draco's friendship with Hermione.

“Oh, did something break up the Outcast Duo?” Pansy asked over breakfast, pointing at Longbottom, who was eating alone. Her eyes scanned the Gryffindor table and after a moment found her target. “I see the Mudblood’s moving up in the world. She’s attached herself to Potter and Weasley.”

“Since when have Potter and Weasley been a step up from Longbottom? Longbottom is Sacred 28,” Daphne Greengrass said as she trickled honey, cream, and cinnamon in concentric circles on top of her oatmeal.

“So is Weasley, but we know they’re hardly worth their salt,” Pansy sniffed. “I was talking more of Potter. Precious Potter who can do no wrong. Apparently he’s picked up a new mongrel to keep as a pet.”

“That or he’s realized that he’ll probably flunk out of Hogwarts if he keeps listening to Weasley,” Theodore Nott said, momentarily taking his nose out of _Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean_ in order to slice up a sausage and take a decorous bite. He nibbled thoughtfully at his weisswurst. “I was watching her during Potions and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone make such precise slices of valerian root. Except for Draco and myself, naturally. Pass the mustard, would you? No, not that one, the other one,” he said to Crabbe, who was looking rather puzzled.

He wasn’t the only one. Pansy, too, looked rather confused. “Are you alright, Theo?” she asked.

“This sausage goes better with sweet mustard rather than spicy mustard,” Theo explained, generously squirting the yellow sauce onto his plate.

“Not the sausage, you ninny, you just complimented _a Mudblood_ ,” Pansy hissed.

Theo shrugged. “It’s not a compliment, it’s just an observation, and obviously something that Potter’s caught on to already,” he said. “You’d have to have your head under a rock not to know that Granger’s _smart_ . If she’d been in Ravenclaw and a half-blood I’d consider cultivating her myself. That’s the sort of girl you’d want as a minion.” He looked balefully at Crabbe and Goyle. “Not someone who gets confused at something as basic as what mustard goes with weisswurst.” He glanced sideways at Pansy and offered her an insincere smile. “Or someone who took _a week and a half_ to change her matchstick into a needle.”

Pansy huffed, crossed her arms, and turned her nose up at Theo. “Lucky I don’t have any plans of being your _minion_ , then,” she declared. “Drakey agrees with me, don’t you, Drake?”

Draco didn’t agree, not really. With either of them. “I don’t think Gryffindors do _minions,_ Theo. I was under the impression they consider themselves _friends_ .” At least, Granger seemed to think so. She’d obviously chosen to be _friends_ with Potter and Weasley over him. Over Longbottom, too. But mostly over him. And it smarted.

  
  


He didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

He’d asked Hermione to tell him her version of the troll story. He’d listened to her. And he’d (calmly and truthfully, he thought) pointed out that she probably wouldn’t have been in trouble if Weasley hadn’t been mouthing off again, causing her to run to the toilets and cry. He’d also told her that he was glad she was alright and that she shouldn’t be making stories up when the teachers were asking about whose fault it was, not when the stories meant claiming that she was at fault when she very clearly hadn’t been.

“And I suppose you think I should just have let Harry get into trouble, even when it wasn’t his fault!” she’d huffed.  
  
Draco had pointed out (logically, he thought) that Potter deserved to be punished for _something_ , since clearly he wasn’t being punished at all for things that he should be punished for. It was only fair.

Hermione had thrown up her hands and declared that Draco obviously didn’t know the rules of friendship.

He’d asked her if they were in a book somewhere, because if so, he’d really like to read it.

She’d looked affronted and stalked off, and she hadn’t spoken to him since then.

 _Well!_ he thought, scooping up slightly more marmalade than strictly necessary, and trying to smother his toast with it. _I was trying to be nice, but if she’s going to be so ungrateful, I’m not going to bother! See how she likes that!_

  
  
  
And so he didn’t talk to her. He stopped going to the library and started studying with Theo in the Slytherin common room instead. He ignored her during classes and in the hallways. He didn’t even say anything after the first Quidditch match of the year, when he saw that Miss _It’s Only Quidditch_ was cheering loudly for _Youngest Seeker in a Century Because He Broke School Rules_ Potter _._ He did have a go at Potter during Potions, but he was most certainly not doing it because Hermione was there. And he had a go at Weasley in the hallway after Potions, but he most certainly was not doing it because Hermione was there, either.

  
  


But either Hermione hadn’t noticed that he was giving her the silent treatment or she didn’t care, because on the last day of the term, as everyone was in a flurry packing their things and getting ready for the trip back to Hogsmeade Station --- back to the Hogwarts Express, and back to their homes --- she’d found him as he was brooding in front of the giant hourglasses that held the gemstones representing House points. Ravenclaw was marginally higher than Slytherin, and this was unacceptable, but he and Theo were already doing their best to haul in the points for their year…

“Merry Christmas, Draco!”

The cheerful, somewhat smothered voice startled Draco out of his funk. A figure wrapped almost completely from head-to-toe in hand-knitted wool was standing just behind him. The small amount of faintly-freckled, caramel skin that wasn’t covered by her overlarge Gryffindor scarf and the few chestnut curls that escaped from under the bobble-topped knit cap she was wearing, were very nearly the only visible parts of her. Blinking at her, wondering what kind of snow-apparition she might be and why on earth she looked like she was dressed like she were going out in a blizzard rather than a rather nice winter day, Draco at last registered that she was Hermione, and she was holding a small package out to him. It was carefully wrapped in green-and-gold paper and had a cleverly-folded paper bow on top. It wasn’t labeled.

He didn’t take the package immediately, so she pushed it into his hands. “Sorry, it’s just some Chocolate Frogs,” she said, pulling down her scarf a little so that she could talk better. “But I noticed you collect them. You use the cards as bookmarks sometimes.” A thought seemed to cross her mind and she suddenly looked self-conscious. “I… I hope you don’t mind? I gave sweets to all my friends for Christmas.”

 _She’d noticed_ . _And she’d said they were friends._  
  
Draco smiled. “I’m afraid I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet,” he told her. “But expect an owl over the holidays.”  
  
Her answering smile was brilliant, and he didn’t mind at all that she’d promptly remembered that Longbottom was waiting for her in the Entrance Hall, and run off.

* * *

  
Draco and his mother were in London for some last-minute shopping while his father conducted some business at Gringotts’. “Mother, can we go to Horizont?” he asked, after they’d gone to a few shops along Diagon Alley, where he’d gotten his obligation gifts for his Slytherin year-mates. “I want to go to Scribbulus.”  
  
“Did you need something for class, dear?” Narcissa Malfoy asked. She was a slender woman with waves of sleek, perfectly-styled honey-blonde hair, a few shades warmer and darker than her son’s and husband’s nearly-white platinum blonde locks, and the same grey eyes as Draco’s. She wasn’t very tall, but she gave the impression of being statuesque. She was also rather intimidating to most people, but she had always been affectionate towards her only child, and Draco was not averse to taking advantage of it.

“No, I need another present,” said Draco, tugging his mother along very slightly; just enough to show his impatience without being improper.

“But you’ve already gotten nine obligation presents for your fellow Slytherins,” Narcissa observed, puzzled.

Draco shook his head. “She’s not a Slytherin,” he said, “it’s not that kind of present.”

 _She_ ? Narcissa noted to herself. _Not an obligation present?_

“...well, maybe it is?” Draco said doubtfully, “she said she gave gifts to all her friends, so I’m giving one back to her, only I don’t know if other houses have obligation presents. Do they, Mother?”  
  
Narcissa smiled gently at her boy. “I wouldn’t know, dear. Most of my friends were in Slytherin, and the ones that were not, were family, so of course we gave them presents regardless.”

“I thought all Malfoys went to Slytherin,” Draco said, surprised.

Narcissa laughed at his innocence. “I wasn’t _born_ a Malfoy, you silly boy,” she said. “ _My_ family has had the occasional... difference. Though they’re not around anymore.” She seemed a little sad about this, so Draco guessed that maybe those family members were much older, and probably had died. He wasn’t very interested in dead relatives and he didn’t like seeing his mother sad. Besides, he was on a mission.

“I’m getting Granger a present anyway,” Draco said.

Narcissa was distracted by the name. “Granger?” she said. “How is she related to Hector Dagworth-Granger of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers? A grand-niece perhaps?”  
  
“She’s never said, and I’ve never asked,” Draco said, omitting “ _because I know she’s a Muggle-born”_. His parents, especially his father, were always very nosy about family histories and they would not be pleased to learn that he’d been cultivating a friendship with someone who had no connections.

“You should ask her,” Narcissa admonished lightly, but not too much. Draco knew why she wasn't too bothered. It wasn’t very important that he'd "forgotten" to ask such an important question, after all; he knew that his mother was assuming that Hermione was probably a half-blood, since most of those outside of the Sacred 28 were half-bloods now. The Dagworths and the Grangers had lost Sacred status almost a century prior, and they’d never been among the Ancient and Most Holy houses. He could see that she was considering his interest in acquiring Hermione, and she was more approving than not. In her eyes, he was starting to collect minions early.

“Why must we go to Scribbulus, Draco?” she now asked. “Surely a young lady might prefer some confections from Sugarplum’s, or perhaps a trinket from Pilliwinkle’s? You could get her a music-box like you got Miss Greengrass and Miss Parkinson, or some bonbons like you’re giving Miss Davis, Miss Moon, and Miss Bulstrode.”  
  
It would’ve been appropriate too, Draco thought, because Hermione had gotten him Chocolate Frogs. "But she’s not allowed to eat sweets at home,” he told his mother, “her parents are very strict about her diet. Besides, I think she’ll like something from Scribbulus more. She’s very serious about her studies.”

He'd been careful in his choice of words. Narcissa was probably forming a picture in her mind of a chubby little bluestocking, whose parents were strict disciplinarians. Not a beauty, but solid and dependable, fairly intelligent but not at all ambitious. The kind of child who’d grow up to be a paper-pusher in the Ministry, fairly high up but never truly important. Definitely minion material, she's be thinking...  
  
They’d arrived at the stationery store at last, and Draco made a beeline for the quills. He was a bit dismayed by the choices, but then his eyes landed on the inks nearby. “This one,” he said gleefully, picking out a fancy-looking bottle of color-changing ink. He practically pranced to the counter, where he excitedly pulled out his money-pouch and extracted several silver Sickles. “Wrap it in red and silver, and put an Unbreakable charm on it,” he instructed the clerk, adding another Sickle for the service, and as soon as that was done he had stuffed the gift into his pocket and slid his hand into his mother’s, looking far more pleased than he had when he’d bought his other obligation presents. Narcissa had taken her own money pouch out, probably expecting to pay for this gift (she had, after all, paid for the others), but Draco failed to notice the small quirk of her eyebrow as she began to feel that there was more to this than simply acquiring a minion. 

  
  


Later that evening, as they rested in the downstairs drawing room after supper, Narcissa and Lucius calmly endured their son’s excitement as he prattled on about... well, it was supposed to be his Hogwarts adventures, but at least a third of it was about Harry Potter and even more was about the Granger girl. It had taken remarkably little prodding. All they’d done was ask how school was going, because Draco had not been writing as often or as much as he should. Of course he’d complained that _he was a big boy now, Mother, and big boys don’t have to write home every two days_ , but soon enough he was on a roll.  
  
“---and I only wanted to see that Remembrall thingy, but Longbottom wouldn’t share, he doesn’t say anything to me because he only talks to Granger, but Potter was being a prat so I flew up and let Potter chase me, and Granger was so angry so I flew back down ---”

He punctuated his words with dramatic hand and arm motions, reenacting his stories; he’d always been a very expressive storyteller, and very chatty when around his mother.

“--- and I was the first in class to do the Levitation charm of course, except for Theo because he’s a _cheater_ and he learned it from his cousin when we were eight, but I heard that in Gryffindor Granger was able to do it on the first day too, and in Ravenclaw Patil did ---”  
  
Theo was a familiar name, of course; Theodore Nott had been one of Draco’s playmates since they were little. Patil sounded familiar too. They were a Pureblood family that had immigrated to England from India four generations prior, and lived quite near the Parkinsons. They weren’t close, but Lucius knew that his father had had some business dealings with the Patil patriarch, and Narcissa had had tea with Mrs Patil a couple of times when she was visiting Posey Parkinson. It was only Granger that wasn’t too familiar a name; but it was rapidly becoming so.

“--- Potter and Weasley saved Granger from the troll, so the story goes, but ---”  
  
“I’m sorry, the _what?_ ” Lucius interrupted his son, his eyes narrowing. He hadn’t heard that correctly, right?  
  
“The troll, it got in the dungeons during Halloween,” Draco replied blithely. “I was scared when they told us at first, but apparently they’re not that scary if Potter and Weasley could fight one off. But I can’t imagine them beating a troll, really, I think Granger would’ve been the one to save them from it if anything, but she won’t tell me anything ---”

“A troll? In the castle?”

Lucius’s voice was eerily calm. Narcissa knew this voice: it was a voice that meant _someone_ was in trouble. Draco had absolutely no idea, and continued prattling on about Herbology and Transfiguration, and how Potter was obviously everyone’s favorite but that wasn’t fair because Granger was obviously so much smarter than he was, if they absolutely had to favor one of the Golden Trio. Lucius’s lips thinned as he heard the moniker, and his breaths slowed to a metronomic regularity. Narcissa smiled as she watched her husband get calmer and calmer. Oh, this was going to be _very interesting._

Draco was sent out of the drawing room soon after, with instructions to go straight to bed since "he'd had a long day". He wasn’t having that, of course; he’d been watching his parents’ interaction and he knew there was some sort of Big People Talk going on --- important things, secrets, and he wouldn’t be a Malfoy and a Slytherin if he were going to let such a chance pass him by. He pretended to head off towards the staircase that led to the bedroom suites, but actually crept back to eavesdrop on his parents. They told him quite a lot of things, but he knew from experience that they would be willing to give him more and better information if he was able to come up with something in the first place. He had rarely been punished for knowing things he could only have known by eavesdropping --- as long as he wasn't caught in the act. He cracked open the drawing room door carefully, making sure that it would not be noticed. His father’s irate voice drifted out.

“I am a Governor, Narcissa! I am the Head of the School Board! Why was I not told that there was a _troll_ in the school? And didn’t Snape tell you about it?”  
  
“Severus has not written to me about it, no,” Narcissa replied coolly. There was something in her tone that told Draco that she’d be having a word with his Head of House very soon. 

“Why am I even putting up with my wife regularly writing another man if he’s not even going to keep us informed about important things, like _there was a bloody troll in the same castle as our ten-year-old son_?”

But Draco wasn't able to hear his mother's reply, as at that moment someone tugged him away from the door. "Young Master was told to go to bed," a high-pitched voice said at his elbow. Draco's heart, which had jumped into his mouth in surprise at the sudden interruption, fell leadenly back into position as he looked down and recognized a pair of tennis-ball-like eyes, pencil-thin nose, and bat-like ears.

"Dobby," he snarled, yanking his arm away from the elf. Dobby served as Lucius’s valet, and had, as far as Draco knew, been his whipping-boy as well. He was a strange little fellow with a tendency to interpret orders in ways contrary to how they were meant. Though Draco had never been able to order Dobby about; Dobby was Lucius’s personal servant, and nobody else was allowed to give him orders. Even Narcissa had to request him to do things, or more often, tell her husband, so that Lucius could give the order himself. It was pretty pointless since Narcissa's personal elf was on the whole much more tractable and obedient than Dobby. Draco could hardly wait for his father to decide that he was old enough to have his own elf, but he hoped his elf would be more like his mother’s Gilly. He’d often seen his father reprimand Dobby, whether with words or with actions, and he didn’t think he had the ability to discipline an elf the way his father said Dobby needed to be. He didn’t think it worked, anyway. Dobby still did whatever he thought was correct, even though he panicked at the slightest thought of Lucius’s displeasure.

Dobby’s huge green eyes were full of censure and his voice quavered when he next spoke. "Master will not be happy that Young Master did not rest as he was supposed to," the elf said, twisting his hands into the old pillowcase that he wore as his uniform. “Dobby will be punished, yes he will, he will have his ears shut in the oven door if Young Master does not go to bed.” He pushed at Draco, herding him down the hallway. Draco still balked a bit. Dobby stared at him dolefully, perhaps upset that he wasn’t moving along faster despite the threat on Dobby’s well-being. But then a look that could only have been interpreted as smugness flashed across the elf’s face, and he said, "If Young Master will not go to bed, Dobby shall have to call Mipsy."

"No, I'll go to bed, don't call Mipsy," Draco hissed.

A faint pop sounded beside him. "Young Master called?"

Too late, Draco realized his mistake. He turned to Dobby, intent on punishing the elf for tricking him, but Dobby had disappeared, leaving him with another, older elf. She had the same bulbous eyes and bat ears as Dobby did, but her nose was wide and flat, and her uniform pillowcase was starched so stiffly that the lace embroidery on it would poke grabby little hands painfully (as Draco knew from ancient experience). She glared at him with a look that promised extra servings of vegetables, and no desserts, for every meal if he didn't obey right away. This fearful apparition was, of course, none other than Mipsy. Dobby was a relatively young elf, lacking in experience; he had been born and bonded to the family in Lucius's generation. Mipsy on the other hand had raised four generations of Malfoys and each of them had been terrified of her. Draco was no exception. He gave her a weak smile. "I'm going to bed," he told her.

He practically dashed into his bedroom and jumped under his covers.

 _I bet Granger's not afraid of house-elves_ , was his final thought before he fell asleep.

* * *

  
When term resumed, Draco's first thought was to rush to the library. He had some news for Hermione and he wanted to tell her as soon as he could. His parents had _allowed_ him to be friends with her... well, sort of. Lucius had said that "the Dagworth-Grangers are a good family, though not of our class, Draco, but if she is as smart as you say perhaps you should cultivate her; she may have her uses." It wasn't a wholesale acceptance and it was based on a completely wrong assumption, but Draco didn't care, he'd take what he could get. So once the last bell had rung on the first day of classes, he'd headed to the library, and as expected, Hermione was already there getting a head start on their homework.  
  
She perked up as soon as she noticed his presence. "I loved your gift," she said, pointing to the color-changing ink, which was now part of the array of writing implements she had laid out in front of her. "It matches my new Lisa Frank journal."  
  
Draco had no idea who or what Lisa Frank was, but the only unrecognizable thing among Hermione's things on the table was a small book-like object with a pair of extremely golden dogs and an explosion of pink and purple confetti, so he assumed that that must be it. "Is that popular? With Muggles, I mean?" he asked, pointing at it.

"Oh yes, all the girls have it," she replied, smiling. "How were your holidays?"

"They were great. Listen to this..."  
  
But they were interrupted by a scuffling sound, and a whimper. Hermione was immediately on her feet, and Draco reluctantly followed after her as she went through the rows of bookshelves, looking for the source of the sound.

She found what she was looking for between the shelves of Herbology and History of Magic. Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy had surrounded Neville Longbottom, who was curled up on the floor, crying.

"What are you doing!" Hermione shrieked, flying to Neville and trying to help him up, while glaring at the Slytherins.

"We were getting some practice for Defense Against the Dark Arts," Pansy told Hermione glibly. "Longbottom was nice enough to volunteer."  
  
Hermione didn't believe her. "What have they done to you, Neville?" she whispered to him.

"Leg-Locker Curse," he whimpered.

"Can you get up? Here, you can lean on me... Let's get you to the Hospital Wing, and I'm going to report this to a teacher..."

Hermione led Neville as carefully and quickly as she could through the library. Thankfully the exit wasn't so far away. They had just made it outside when they realized that Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson had followed after them, laughing at the lopsided picture they made; Hermione was around half Neville's size, as Neville was rather on the heavy side. Still Hermione plodded on, determined to help Neville escape. Behind them, she heard Pansy say, "Hey, Draco. How long have you been in the library? Come help us torment Longbottom, or the Mudblood, if you like."

She didn't hear Draco's reply, but she heard Pansy respond to it. "Oh, come on! It's just a little hex, you’ve done it too." Another murmur, and then Pansy's derisive voice came again: "Aww, Drakey's afraid of detention? Or maybe of Gryffindorks?" Boisterous laughter from Crabbe and Goyle. Hermione shook her head. Those kids were bad news.

The next day, Draco once again waited for Hermione at the library. He wanted to explain. But Hermione was in a fine fettle once she saw him at her usual table. She plunked her bag onto the table and rummaged violently through it without greeting or even looking directly at him. Draco wondered if he should try to catch her attention, and was about to tap her shoulder when she turned her head and glared at him. He jerked his hand back involuntarily, half-convinced she would bite his fingers if they were close enough to her face. 

Hermione didn't bite him. "Take this back," she spat instead, thrusting the nearly-full jar of color changing ink into his hands.

"B-but it was a gift," Draco sputtered, trying to push the ink back to her. He'd never heard of someone returning a gift before. It was utterly rude, a wordless insult.

"I don't care," she said, slamming the ink onto the table between them when Draco would not accept it. "Neville told me you'd been hexing him --- you and your friends."

He had the grace to look down, shame-faced. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to," she replied and stalked off in high dudgeon, leaving the ink slowly leaking out of a hairline crack as it sat forlornly at the table, and Draco wondering how things could have gone so terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My alphabet for this chapter is PeachPenguin91. Her favorite character, so far, I think, is savage!Theo.


	8. The Politics of Young Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to balance being friends with Gryffindors and Draco. Draco tries to keep face in Slytherin and stay on Hermione's good side. Neither attempt goes particularly well.

In only a matter of days, Neville bunny-hopping around the castle was a commonplace sight. Hermione had at first tried to joke that at least he’d have really strong legs and abs, but Neville hadn’t taken the bait. The joke might’ve worked on Harry, she thought, but Nev was gentler, sweeter; he had known what she was doing and he’d tried to smile for her, but she could see that he hadn’t felt cheered up at all. So she’d gone to the library (of course) and looked up the curse. She found it in  _ Curses and Counter-curses  _ by Vindictus Viridian, a rather Slytherin-sounding pseudonym if anyone asked her. She wondered if that was how the Slytherins had learned it. After all, first years weren’t taught hexes, and she knew perfectly well that at least one Slytherin first year liked to read ahead.

_  
Locomotor Mortis _ was a relatively simple spell, but it required a fairly high level of magical ability and had a more complicated wand-motion than the usual first year swishes and flicks: there were four parts to it - a straight line down, a sharp left, a short dip, and a long, sharp sweep to the right, all at perpendiculars. She’d studied the counter-curse from  _ Curses and Counter-curses,  _ and she’d observed Madame Pomfrey perform the counter-curse, as well. The incantation was  _ Locomotor Solvo _ , and the wand-motion was the same as the curse, only reversed and bottom-up. Two weeks into the term, and a week after she’d quarrelled with Draco, Hermione was getting very good at performing the counter to the Leg-Locker Curse.  
  


She was, however, running out of patience. Draco still hadn’t apologized to Neville, though he’d repeatedly tried to explain himself to  _ her _ . Just the other day, he’d caught her coming out of the girls’ toilets on the third floor near the Charms classroom, and he’d stood in her way until, in trying to avoid him, she’d managed to walk backwards into an empty classroom. He followed her in quickly and shut the door, blocking it by standing right in front of it. He’d grown a little since their first meeting -- he and Hermione were of a height now -- but they were both similarly slender, so they both knew that if Hermione really wanted to she could push him out of the way and get out. They also both knew that she wouldn’t do so… for about two minutes, and time was ticking.  
  


“Look, I hadn’t meant it, alright? I’d never been able to make it work, before term started,” Draco said in a rush. “I read the curse, it was in a fourth-year book, you know I like to read ahead. But the others -- they, they said I was acting like a loser,” and he realized, as he said it, that it was a stupid reason, but it was the only reason he had. Hermione’s lips were locked in a tight line: she looked very much like she wanted to say something but was doing her best to listen first and not talk. So he continued, feeling his face blaze with shame and hoping that she wouldn’t notice. “I can’t let them call me a loser. I’m a Malfoy. So I said, ‘I can do a curse none of you can’, and I shot the spell at the first person who passed by.”  
  


Hermione didn’t manage to muffle her disbelieving snort.  
  


“Really!” Draco insisted. “I didn’t _mean_ to _hex_ _Longbottom_. I just needed to sound impressive! I didn’t even think it would work, I just thought that they would never know if it failed, because I hadn’t told them what the common name of the curse was. But it worked and -- and they thought it was hilarious -- and I had to teach them it, I had to.” He looked anxiously at her, willing her to believe him. “It’s a good spell, honest.”  
  


If Hermione were really objective about it, it  _ had _ been a good spell. If it hadn’t been used so much against Neville she might have actually complimented Draco on his skill. It was definitely an advanced spell for their level, but Draco had not only learned it and used it, he had managed to teach it to some truly dull-witted people. Plus, except for making Neville perpetually late and giving him an amazing core and lower body workout, it wasn’t particularly harmful even to Neville, unless he tried to navigate the moving staircases of the castle (which he regularly had trouble with, even without being hexed). It was more of annoying; the sort of thing that Fred and George Weasley might get up to any time in the Gryffindor common room… and frankly, given the things that she’d already noticed around Hogwarts, including a giant three-headed dog and a game of flying murderball, she was rather inclined to just brush it off as a blip in her radar of school mishaps. But it wasn’t her being targeted, and it wasn’t Fred and George, irresponsible as usual, doing the cursing. It was poor, sweet Neville, and it was Draco, whom she really had thought to be more sensible than that.  
  


“Fine,” she said finally, tamping down on her strong feelings of  _ I thought you were better than that _ and  _ I thought you were my friend, so you wouldn’t hurt my friends _ . “I better not catch you cursing Neville again, ever.”  
  


“Thank you, you won’t,” Draco had said, and she’d almost believed him with how earnestly his eyes shone.

* * *

  
Later that evening, Hermione was playing chess against Ron (a casual observer might have called what she was doing “losing spectacularly”, but if anyone asked Hermione she was “fighting neck-and-neck”) when Harry arrived from Quidditch practice and told the two of them that Snape was refereeing the next Quidditch match.

  
“Don’t play,” Hermione said at once. She snuck a look at Ron and wondered if he might be distracted enough by Harry’s arrival to notice if she knocked one of his bishops over.  _ A sneaky assassination, _ she thought, but no, Ron was still staring at the board, and now Harry was too.   
  
  
“Say you’re ill,” Ron said, moving a rook to take one of her pawns. She thought she could see where he was going: if she moved wrongly, he could easily position himself for a check.  _ Ha, Ronald, you can’t trick me like that, _ she thought smugly, and moved a different pawn from the one that was blocking Ron’s path to her King.

  
She tried hard not to smirk as she looked at Ron and waited for his next move. “Pretend to break your leg,” she suggested to Harry.   
  
  
\--- wait. Was Ron  _ smiling? _

  
“Really break your leg,” Ron told Harry, as he moved his knight into the position her pawn had just vacated. “Check,” he said, as Harry said, “I can’t. There isn’t a reserve Seeker. If I back out, Gryffindor can’t play at all.”

  
Hermione puffed out her cheeks in annoyance. She was torn between telling Harry that it didn’t matter if Gryffindor couldn’t play quidditch if it meant he wouldn’t give Snape the chance to kill him, and flipping the chess board at Ron because  _ why -- how -- ugh -- _

  
At that moment, Neville toppled into the common room, once again with his legs locked together. Hermione leapt to his rescue, not-so-accidentally upsetting the chess board so that the pieces were knocked all askew. She quickly performed  _ Locomotor solvo _ and helped Neville to his feet; he was trembling and shaky from physical exhaustion, though she noticed that he didn’t seem as winded as he had used to in the beginning. She supposed all the exercise was somehow good for him; it was an ill wind that blew nobody any fortune.

  
“What happened?” she asked, as she led Neville to Harry and Ron. For all his troubles earlier, Harry was looking at Neville with genuine concern. Ron was busy packing up the wizards’ chess set. Hermione noticed the black King (her King) raising its crown at Ron and heard its tinny voice declaring loftily, “I didn’t lose this time!” Ron smiled indulgently at it and let it stride around while he collected all the others, and swept it into his chess set last. By then she had managed to settle Neville into the loveseat that she had originally been occupying. He drew a deep breath.

  
“Malfoy,” he said shakily. “I met him outside the library. He said he’d been looking for someone to practice that on.”

_  
Of all the --- why that boy! He lied to me! _

  
“Go to Professor McGonagall! Report him!” Hermione urged, feeling an unusually strong flare of annoyance.  _ He said he wouldn’t pick on Neville any more! _   
_  
  
No _ ,  _ Draco told you you wouldn’t catch him any more,  _ another voice said in Hermione’s head. She was vaguely aware that Ron, Harry, and Neville were still talking, but the voice in her head was rather insistent (it sounded rather like herself, to be honest, and was a little annoying). _ He never said he would stop, just that you wouldn’t see. _

_  
Why must you always be right?  _ She asked the annoying voice in her head.

  
The voice didn’t get a chance to reply, however, because just then Harry gave a loud gasp, jerking Hermione back to reality. Neville had gotten up and was heading to the boys’ dormitories. Harry was holding a Chocolate Frog card and looking like he’d been struck by lightning. “ _ I’ve found him!”  _ he whispered. “I’ve found Flamel! I  _ told _ you I’d read the name somewhere before, I read it on the train coming here -- listen to this: “Professor Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood,  _ and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel _ ”!”

  
Hermione’s eyes had widened at the word  _ alchemy _ ; by the end of Harry’s recitation she had jumped to her feet. She  _ knew _ Flamel! She’d read about him before! True, she hadn’t really focused on him, but she remembered that name now, remembered where to look---

  
“Stay here!” she told the boys, and dashed up to her dormitory. She grabbed the third book from the pile on her bedside table (a hefty tome called “100 People that Changed History” by Clio Xanthine Fairchild, which she had been meaning to cross-reference with Everard Whitehorn’s  _ Great Thinkers and Inventors of the Past Millennium _ ) and ran back to the common room, where she promptly waved the large book in Harry and Ron’s befuddled faces.

  
“I never thought to look in here! I got this out of the library weeks ago for a bit of light reading!” Ron looked gobsmacked and started to say something, but she cut him off as she began to flip through the pages. Where was it? She had just finished reading about the dramatic life story of Alphonse and Edward Elric, the alchemists in the chapter before Flamel, and had only glanced at the next chapter’s introduction, but then she’d gotten distracted and forgotten to return to that particular book… wait, why didn’t she just check the table of contents? Too late anyway, she was nearly there… She reached the chapter she needed and began to scan the page in a flurry of excitement. Her eyes locked on two words near the end of the page -- “I knew it! I knew it!”

  
“Are we allowed to speak yet?” said Ron grumpily.

  
Hermione ignored him; she had an important discovery to reveal, and no time for Mr Grumpy Weasley’s moods. Turning to Harry, she announced grandly, “Nicolas Flamel is  _ the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone _ !”

  
Harry did not seem impressed. Instead, he and Ron said together, “The  _ what _ ?”

  
Hermione wanted to rub her temples, but she was holding the book, so she settled for putting the book down on the coffee table and pushing it towards the boys. “Oh, honestly, don’t you two read?” She was fairly sure that Draco would have known about the Stone, and probably Neville would have, too. Harry at least had the excuse of having been raised by Muggles, but wasn’t Ron a pureblood? Why didn’t he recognize something which should be a huge part of Wizarding history? “Look – read that, there.” She pointed towards the important paragraphs:

>   
>  _The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal._
> 
> _ There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera- lover. Mr Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight). _

  
“See?” said Hermione impatiently, when Harry and Ron had finished reading aloud (honestly, they were  _ eleven _ , why couldn’t they read silently?). She jabbed her finger several times on the page for emphasis. “The dog must be guarding Flamel’s Philosopher’s Stone! I bet he asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he knew someone was after it. That’s why he wanted the Stone moved out of Gringotts!”

  
“A stone that makes gold and stops you ever dying!” said Harry, and Hermione wanted to cheer because someone else finally got it. “No wonder Snape’s after it! Anyone would want it.”

* * *

Hermione now had two things to worry about: first, of course, was the issue with Neville and Draco, and then there was the new and altogether more worrying issue of Professor Snape. Harry was sure that Snape had somehow cottoned on that he (maybe not Hermione or Ron, but certainly he, Harry) had figured out thought that Snape was after the Philosopher’s Stone hidden in the third floor, and would therefore use being the referee for the upcoming Hufflepuff/Gryffindor match as an opportunity to rid himself of Harry’s meddling. Hermione, who had hardly been convinced that it was a good idea for Harry (or anyone) to play murderball in the first place, was sorely tempted to goad Harry until he accepted that he was probably going to die if he insisted on playing even with Snape as a referee. But she wanted to be a good friend, so she kept quiet. Instead, she quietly took Ron aside one afternoon and offered to teach him the Leg-Locker Curse.

  
“The Slytherins keep using it on Neville,” she told Ron. “I think it would be poetic justice if we used it on Snape.”  
  
Ron looked like he wanted to ask what  _ poetic justice _ meant; Hermione breathed a small sigh of relief when he didn’t, because she wasn’t actually very sure either. Her   
parents and her books used the phrase when there was some sort of very fitting punishment, but she didn’t think that was a very good definition of it. Oh well. Ron had latched on to  _ use it on Snape _ and his eyes glittered in malicious merriment.

  
“Teach me,” he said, the first time he’d actually ever accepted help from Hermione about a spell. Hermione spent an hour correcting his pronunciation and wand movement, and Ron hardly even complained. Then they spent several more hours practicing on each other until they could both (read: Ron) get the hex and the counter-curse correctly at one go.

* * *

On the day of Harry’s quidditch match, Hermione and Ron bid Harry good luck and went to the stands, clutching their wands in preparation for hexing Snape. “Now don’t forget, it’s  _ Locomotor mortis _ ,” Hermione said, glancing around to check where they could best position themselves.

  
“I  _ know, _ don’t nag,” Ron snapped, and just like that they were back to being annoyed with each other. Well. Frankly Hermione was friends with Ron for Harry’s sake, and also because she didn’t really have very many friends; she much preferred the company of Neville or even of Draco, but Harry really seemed to be unable to go anywhere without Ron. She clenched her teeth and waved Ron over to a row of seats just behind Professor Snape; Neville was already seated there, looking like he had deliberately placed himself in the teacher’s blind spot. Parvati Patil was sitting with her twin sister, who was in Ravenclaw, on the same row as Snape, though Hermione noticed that Parvati was seated as far away from the Potions Master as she could (her sister didn’t seem to mind being near Snape). A random thought flashed through Hermione’s mind: did Snape only hate  _ Gryffindors _ ?

  
He certainly looked like he hated Gryffindors. Harry in particular. Ron seemed to have noticed too. “I’ve never seen Snape look so mean,” he told Hermione as they both settled into their seats. “Look – they’re off. Ouch!”

* * *

Draco had been doing his best to lay off Neville Longbottom since it seemed to upset Hermione so much. Still, he hadn’t been completely able to avoid it. Longbottom was a favorite target of Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He liked Hermione and wanted to keep her happy, but he also spent a lot of time with his Slytherin friends and had to keep them happy as well. After all, they’d all known each other since they were children, and their parents encouraged them to stay together as a unit. Unfortunately for Draco, it seemed as they got older that his preferences were getting to be less like those of his friends -- but he wasn’t like Theo, who preferred to be alone with his books, or Millicent who preferred to be alone with her handicrafts; and he wasn’t like Daphne or Blaise who could make friends with anyone. He needed to be able to stay with the friends he already had.

  
So it seemed rather providential when they discovered Weasley sitting near the back row of the Quidditch stands, just behind Hermione and Longbottom. Draco hadn’t really been planning on attending the match; it was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, nothing interesting there. But as he saw the head of familiar red hair, it occurred to him that he’d promised Hermione he wouldn’t fight Longbottom where she could see him; he hadn’t promised the same for  _ Weasley _ . Finally a way to let off steam! 

  
He grinned at Crabbe and Goyle, and the group of them decided to take a casual stroll along the back row of the Quidditch audience stands. When they got there, he not-so-casually poked Weasley rather hard in the back of the head. The redhead turned and glared at Draco, and he gave a fake, simpering smile in return. “Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn’t see you there,” he said, not sorry at all. He crossed one arm over his chest and put a finger of his other hand on his chin, staring into the distance as he struck a mock- thoughtful pose. “Wonder how long Potter’s going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want a bet?” He looked back at Weasley again, raising his eyebrows in challenge. “What about you, Weasley?”

  
Unfortunately for Draco, Weasley didn’t take the bait; he had turned back to the match and was completely engrossed in the match, though for what reason, Draco couldn’t imagine. Hermione, who supposedly was not interested in Quidditch, was just as focused as Weasley -- Draco supposed that, since she wasn’t likely to have suddenly developed a love for the game he had heard her refer to as “murderball”, her attention had less to do with the game and more to do with the fact that Harry Potter was playing it. The thought didn’t sit well with him and he cast about for another explanation. In the meantime, he tried again to bait Weasley, raising his voice to ask Crabbe, “You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?” Crabbe didn’t reply, but it didn’t matter; Draco’s question had been rhetorical, anyway. “It’s people they feel sorry for. See, there’s Potter, who’s got no parents, then there’s the Weasleys, who’ve got no money –”

  
Weasley was still resolutely staring at the game, and strangely enough, Hermione was, too. Was she actively ignoring him? That notion sat even less well with him, than the idea that she was fixated on the game because Potter was playing. In fact it made him feel almost vicious. Vicious enough that when he noticed Longbottom beginning to side-eye him, he decided to go for the jugular. He’d promised not to  _ hex _ Longbottom, but words weren’t hexes, were they? “You should be on the team, Longbottom, you’ve got no brains.”

  
Longbottom went a fine shade of red and turned in his seat to face Draco, jostling Hermione. Draco rubbed his hands together in anticipation -- there was no way Hermione would ignore this. “I’m worth twelve of you, Malfoy,” Longbottom stammered. Crabbe and Goyle started laughing; Draco laughed too.

  
It got better. Weasley was apparently paying attention now, because he actually tried to  _ encourage _ Longbottom even though he was still facing the game. “You tell him, Neville,” the ginger idiot said, as if Longbottom had actually said something dreadfully clever.

  
Crabbe and Goyle were looking at him expectantly. Well, of course he wouldn’t let  _ Weasley _ and  _ Longbottom  _ have the last word! He decided to hit them both where it hurt most. “Longbottom, if brains were gold you’d be poorer than Weasley, and that’s saying something.”

  
He seemed to have hit a nerve. Weasley turned to glare at him. “I’m warning you, Malfoy – one more word –”

  
“Ron!” said Hermione suddenly, tugging at Weasley’s sleeve and pointing at the pitch. “Harry –!”

  
“What? Where?”

  
The crowd was gasping and cheering; Hermione stood up, crossing her fingers and practically kissing them as she stared fixedly at Potter.  So: she  _ was _ ignoring him, Draco thought. And she  _ was _ watching the game because of Potter. Of course. Precious Potter. Got to Hermione after all.

  
If Draco had thought he was seeing red earlier, he was seeing green now. He definitely needed to find an outlet for all this frustration -- and he knew who his target was going to be. “You’re in luck, Weasley, Potter’s obviously spotted some money on the ground!” he said, hoping that it would be enough to push the other boy into throwing the first hex.

  
It worked -- but not in the way Draco expected it to. In a moment Ron had jumped over his seat and was on top of him. Draco grunted as the taller boy’s weight slammed his torso to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. As an only child of an esteemed Pureblood family he had never been involved in a physical fight before. Still, he knew one thing: there was no way he was going to let Weasley come out on top. He shoved the ginger menace with his shoulders and managed to dislodge him enough to throw himself over the boy; smirking, he drew back his fist, ready to punch the git in the face -- but then Weasley managed to wrestle him back under. Out of the corner of his eye Draco noticed that Longbottom had clambered over the back of his seat and promptly gotten into fisticuffs with Crabbe and Goyle. He paid for his moment of distraction.

  
“Hey, what are you looking at?” Weasley said, and socked him right in the eye. Draco gasped and fell back, clutching his injured eye, but when Weasley moved closer he kicked out and hit Weasley in the shin. Weasley lost a bit of ground, but he was still bent over Draco and in an advantageous position. Anger rushed through Draco’s veins as he once again tried to overpower his opponent. Just managing to scramble so that he was now on top, Draco took a swipe at the redhead and hit him on the nose. He felt a crack and saw with satisfaction that blood was spurting from Weasley’s nose. Stupid Weasley!

  
There was a roar of noise from above them, and Hermione’s voice came loud, clear, and shrilly excited. “Ron! Ron! Where are you? The game’s over! Harry’s won! We’ve won! Gryffindor are in the lead!” Weasley stilled, and Draco took the chance to glance over at Hermione; she was dancing around, hugging the Gryffindor Patil, looking way too excited for someone who had never watched a Quidditch game before because she wasn’t interested in the game. Had Potter really managed to convert her so easily?

  
Draco felt a tiny pang of disappointment settle coldly in his heart. With a grunt, he pushed Weasley away and went to fetch Crabbe and Goyle. They had managed to knock Longbottom out -- no surprises there. Weasley looked a little confused at the speed of events; he still seemed to want to continue their fight, but wary -- of whom? Hermione? As Draco reached Longbottom, however, Weasley seemed to shake himself. He dashed between the Slytherins and Longbottom, and started to drag the unconscious boy away.

  
“Let’s go,” Draco told Crabbe and Goyle. He wasn’t planning on staying there while Gryffindor celebrated, and if Hermione saw him near Longbottom, she might think that he had something to do with his injuries. He chanced a look backwards as they left, to see that Hermione had climbed under the stands and was looking at Longbottom, horrified. 

* * *

Later, Hermione waited impatiently for Harry to arrive at the Entrance Hall. The rest of the Gryffindor team had showered and changed, and had gone up to Gryffindor Tower for the after-party; Ron was practically vibrating with excitement.Hermione wasn’t that interested in the party, actually. She just wanted to congratulate Harry; most of her mind was occupied with Neville, unconscious in the hospital wing, and her uneasy memories of Draco having started the fight that put Neville there. Madame Pomfrey, the school matron, had told Hermione that her worrying would not help Neville, and sent her out of the Hospital Wing with strict instructions to go celebrate their win. So she was planning on doing that. After all, Neville would be fine, and Harry had survived despite Snape, and Draco…

  
She felt sad and disappointed about Draco.

  
Finally, Harry’s messy black head came into view. He looked nervous and pale, not at all like someone who had just won his first-ever Quidditch match in record time. Hermione felt her heart leap into her throat, and her worries about Neville and Draco were pushed to the back of her mind for later. “Harry, where have you been?” she squeaked in alarm.

  
Ron didn’t seem to think anything was off. He thumped Harry on the back merrily, shouting, “We won! You won! We won!” He talked so fast and without stopping that he managed to admit to decking Draco and talk about how Neville fought with Crabbe and Goyle, and tell Harry about the after-party, and announce that his brothers stole some cakes from the castle kitchens, in a single breath.

  
Harry didn’t seem interested. “Never mind that now,” he said, pulling the two of them towards the shadows. “Let’s find an empty room, you wait ’til you hear this …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have NOT forgotten nor abandoned this fic. I've just been feeling extremely iffy about putting a chap out without getting it beta'd, and my betas have been very busy. Sooo I sat on it as long as I could, but I just really need to get a chap out, so here is one and I am very sorry for the crappy quality.
> 
> I have the next chap written (it's about Norbert!) and if my beta can get back to me I will be posting the next chap by the end of the week.


End file.
